THE  LAY  ANTHONY 


BOOKS  BY 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

THE  LAY  ANTHONY 

MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

THE  THREE  BLACK  PENNYS 

GOLD  AND  IRON 

JAVA  HEAD 

THE  HAPPY  END 

LINDA  CONDON 


-THE 
LAY  ANTHONY 

A  ROMANCE 


BY 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

r      I 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED^  A 'KNOPF 

I9IQ 


To    Piolrt-c^ 

-mofef 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC 


JU- 


PBINTED   IN    THE   UNITED   STATES   OT   AMERICA 


To 
DOROTHY 

This 

Figment  of  a  Perpetual 
Flowering 


S28JKS7 


".  .  .  if  in  passing  from  this  deceitful  world 
into  true  life  love  is  not  forgotten,  .  .  .  /  know 
that  among  the  most  joyous  souls  of  the  third 
heaven  my  Fiametta  sees  my  pain.  Pray  herf  if 
the  sweet  draught  of  Lethe  has  not  robbed  me  of 
her,  .  .  .  to  obtain  my  ascent  to  her." 

— GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO 


THE  LAY  ANTHONY 


NOT  for  the  honor  of  winning  the  Vander- 
bilt  Cup,  nor  for  the  glory  of  pitching  a 
major  league  baseball  team  into  the  world's  cham 
pionship,  would  Tony  Ball  have  admitted  to  the 
familiar  and  derisive  group  in  the  drugstore  that 
he  was — in  the  exact,  physical  aspect  of  the  word 
• — pure.  Secretly,  and  in  an  entirely  natural  and 
healthy  manner,  he  was  ashamed  of  his  inno 
cence.  He  carefully  concealed  it  in  an  elaborate 
assumption  of  wide  worldly  knowledge  and  ex 
perience,  in  an  attitude  of  cynical  comprehension, 
and  indifference  toward  girls. 

But  he  might  have  spared  himself  the  effort, 
the  fictions,  of  his  pose — had  he  proclaimed  his 
ignorance  aloud  from  the  brilliantly  lighted  en 
trance  to  the  drugstore  no  one  who  knew  him  in 
the  midweek  night  throng  on  Ellerton's  main 
street  would  have  credited  Anthony  with  anything 

en] 


:  :TBE:L:A:Y  ANTHONY 

beyond  a  thin  and  surprising  joke.  He  was,  at 
twenty,  the  absolute,  adventurous  opposite  of  any 
conscious  or  cloistered  virtue:  the  careless  car 
riage  of  his  big,  loose  frame;  his  frank,  smiling 
grey  eyes  and  ample  mouth;  his  very,  drawling 
voice — all  marked  him  for  a  loiterer  in  the  pleas 
ant  and  sunny  places  of  life,  indifferent  to  the 
rigors  of  a  mental  or  moral  discipline. 

The  accumulated  facts  of  his  existence  fully 
bore  this  out :  the  number  of  schools  which,  play 
ing  superlative  baseball,  he  had  still  been  obliged 
to  leave — carrying  with  him  the  cordial  good 
will  of  master  and  fellow — for  an  uncon 
querable,  irresponsible  laxity;  the  number  and 
variety  of  occupations  that  had  claimed  him  in 
the  past  three  years,  every  one  of  which  at  its 
inception  was  certain,  he  felt  confident,  to  carry 
him  to  resplendent  and  glittering  pinnacles;  and 
every  one — in  his  rapidly  diminishing  interest,  at 
tention,  or  because  of  persistent,  adverse  condi 
tions  over  which,  he  asseverated,  he  had  no  con 
trol — turning  into  a  fallow  field,  a  disastrous 
venture.  And,  conclusively,  the  group  of  fa- 

[12] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

miliars,  the  easy  companions  of  idle  hours,  to 
whom  he  had  gravitated. 

He  met  his  mates  by  appointment  at  Doctor 
Allhop's  drugstore,  or  by  an  elaborate  system 
of  whistled  formulae  from  the  street,  at  which  he 
would  rise  from  the  dinner  table  with  a  muttered 
excuse  and  disappear.  He  was  rarely  if  ever 
sought  outright  at  his  father's  house;  it  was  quite 
another  sort  of  boy  who  met  and  discoursed  easily 
with  sisters,  who  unperturbed  greeted  mothers 
face  to  face. 

It  would  have  been  useless,  had  he  known  it, 
to  protest  his  virtue  inside  the  drugstore  or  out; 
a  curious  chain  of  coincidents  had  preserved  it. 
Again  and  again  he  had  been  at  the  point  of  sur 
rendering  his  involuntary  Eden,  and  always  the 
accident,  the  interruption,  had  befallen,  always 
he  had  retired  in  a  state  of  more  or  less  orderly 
celibacy.  On  the  occasion  of  one  of  those  noc 
turnal,  metropolitan  escapades  by  which  matured 
boys,  in  a  warm,  red  veil  of  whiskey,  assert  their 
manhood  and  independence,  he  had  been  thrust 
in  a  drunken  stupor  into  the  baggage  car  of  the 

[13] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"owl"  train  to  Ellerton.  Instances  might  be  mul 
tiplied:  life,  in  its  haphazard  manner,  its  un 
charted  tides  and  eddies  sweeping  arbitrarily  up 
and  down  the  world,  had  carelessly  preserved  in 
him  that  concrete  ideal  which  myriads  of  heroic 
and  agonized  beings  had  striven  terribly  and  in 
vain  to  ward. 

And  so  it  happened,  when  Doctor  Allhop 
turned  with  an  elaborate  impropriety  from  the 
pills  he  was  compounding  in  a  porcelain  pestle, 
that  Anthony's  laugh  was  loudest,  his  gusto  most 
marked,  in  the  group  gathered  at  the  back  of  the 
drugstore.  A  wooden  screen  divided  them,  hid 
the  shelves  of  bottles,  the  water  sink,  and  the 
other  properties  and  ingredients  of  the  druggist's 
profession,  from  the  glittering  and  public  exhibi 
tion  of  the  finished  article,  the  marble  slab  and 
silver  mouths  of  the  soda-water  fountain,  the  un 
initiated  throng. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  case  of  prepared  food,  his 
legs  thrust  out  before  him,  and  a  thread  of  smoke 
coiled  bluely  from  the  cigarette  held  in  his  broad, 
scarred  hand.  There  was  a  little,  gay  song  on 

[14] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

his  lips,  and  a  roving,  gay  glint  in  his  direct  gaze. 
At  frequent  intervals  he  surveyed  with  approba 
tion  maroon  socks  and  a  pair  of  new  and  shining 
pumps;  the  rest  of  his  apparel  was  negligent. 

The  sole  chair  was  occupied  by  the  plump  bulk 
of  Thomas  Addington  Meredith,  to  whom  a  sharp 
nose  in  a  moonlike  countenance  lent  an  expres 
sion  of  constant  inquiry  and  foxy  caution.  He 
was  elaborately  apparelled  in  a  suit  which 
boasted  a  waistcoat  draped  with  the  gold  chain  of 
an  authentic  timepiece;  closing  a  silver  cigarette 
case  scrolled  large  with  his  initials,  a  fat  finger 
bore  a  ruby  that,  rumor  circulated,  had  been  the 
gift  of  a  married  woman. 

Lounging  against  a  shelf  Alfred  Craik  gazed 
absently  at  his  blackened  and  broken  fingernails, 
his  greasy  palms.  He  was  Anthony's  partner  in 
the  current  industry  of  a  machine-shop  and  ga 
rage,  maintained  in  a  dilapidated  stable  on  the 
outskirts  of  Ellerton.  It  was  a  concern  mainly 
upheld  by  a  daily  levy  on  the  Ball  family  for 
necessary  tools  and  accessories.  He  was,  as  al 
ways,  silent,  detached. 

[IS] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

But  William  Williams  amply  atoned  for  any 
taciturnity  on  the  part  of  the  others;  he  had  re 
turned  a  short  while  before  from  two  checkered 
years  in  the  West;  and,  a  broad  felt  hat  cinched 
with  a  carved  leather  band  pushed  back  from 
his  brow,  and  waving  the  formidable  stump  of  a 
cigar,  he  enlarged  excitedly  on  the  pleasures  of 
that  far,  liberal  land. 

"Why,"  he  proclaimed,  "I  owe  a  saloon  keeper 
in  San  Francisco  sixty-five  dollars  for  one  round 
of  drinks — the  joint  was  full  and  it  was  up  to  me 
.  .  .  nothing  but  champagne  went,  understand! 
He  knows  he'll  get  it.  Why,  I  collared  ten  dol 
lars  a  day  overseeing  sheep.  I  cleaned  up  three 
thousand  in  one  little  deal;  it  was  in  Butte  City; 
it  lasted  nine  days.  But  'Frisco's  the  place — all 
the  girls  there  are  good  sports,  all  the  men 
spenders." 

"What  did  you  come  back  East  for?"  Alfred 
Craik  demanded.  "Why  didn't  you  stay  right 
with  it?" 

"I  got  up  against  it,"  William  grinned;  "the 
old  man  wouldn't  give  me  another  stake."  The 
[16] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

thought  of  the  glories  he  had  been  forced  to  re 
linquish  started  him  afresh.  "I  cleaned  up 
enough  in  a  week  at  billiards,"  he  boasted,  "to 
keep  me  in  Ellerton  a  year." 

"Didn't  Bert  Dingley  take  four  bits  from  you 
last  night  at  Hinkle's?"  Anthony  lazily  asked. 

"That  farmer!"  the  other  scoffed.  "I  had  a 
rank  cue;  they  are  all  rank  at  Hinkle's.  I'll 
match  him  in  a  decent  parlor  for  any  amount." 

"How  much  will  you  put  up?"  Meredith  de 
manded;  "I'll  back  Bert." 

"How  much  have  you  got?"  William  queried. 

"How  much  have  you?" 

"If  this  was  San  Francisco  I  could  get  a  hun 
dred." 

"What  have  you  got  in  real  coin,  Bill?"  Tony 
joined  in. 

"Three  nickels,"  William  Williams  admitted 
moodily. 

"I've  got  thirty-five  cents,"  Thomas  added. 
"I  wish  I  could  get  a  piece  of  change." 

"How's  the  car?"  Anthony  turned  to  his  part 
ner  in  the  lull  that  followed.  The  "car,"  their 

[17] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

sole  professional  charge,  had  been  placed  in  their 
hands  by  an  optimistic  and  benevolent  connection 
of  the  Balls. 

"I  had  the  differential  apart  again  to-day," 
Alfred  responded,  "but  I  can't  find  that  grind 
ing  anywhere.  It  will  have  to  be  all  torn  down," 
he  announced  with  somber  enthusiasm. 

"You  have  had  that  dam'  thing  apart  three 
times  in  the  last  four  weeks,  and  every  time  you 
put  it  together  it's  worse,"  Anthony  protested. 
"The  cylinder  casing  leaks,  and  God  knows  what 
you  did  to  the  gears." 

"I  wish  I  had  a  piece  of  change,"  Thomas 
Meredith  repeated,  in  a  manner  patently  myste 
rious. 

"A  temporary  sacrifice  of  your  tin  shop — " 
Doctor  Allhop  suggested,  turning  from  the  skill 
ful  molding  of  the  pills  on  a  glass  slab. 

"Not  a  chance!  the  family  figurehead  an 
nounced  that  he  had  taken  my  watch  'out'  for  the 
last  time." 

"He  wants  to  plaster  it  on  some  high  school 
skirt,"  Alfred  announced  unexpectedly. 

[18] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"This  robbing  the  nursery  makes  me  ill,"  Wil 
liam  protested.  "Out  in  Denver  there  are  real 
queens  with  gold  hair — " 

His  period  was  lost  in  a  yapping  chorus  from 
the  West-wearied  circle.  "Take  it  to  bed  with 
you,"  he  was  entreated. 

"Nothing  in  the  high  school  can  reach  these," 
Meredith  assured  them.  "This  is  the  real  thing 
— an  all  night  seance.  They  have  just  moved 
in  by  the  slaughter  house;  a  regular  pipe — their 
father  is  dead,  and  the  old  woman's  deaf.  Two 
sisters  .  .  .  one  has  red  hair,  and  the  other  can 
kick  higher'n  you  can  hold  your  hand.  The  night 
I  went  I  had  to  leave  early,  but  they  told  me  to 
come  back  .  .  .  any  night  after  nine,  and  bring 
a  friend." 

"I'll  walk  around  with  you,"  William  Williams 
remarked  negligently. 

"Not  on  three  nickels.  They  told  me  to  fetch 
around  a  couple  of  bottles  of  port  wine,  and  have 
a  genuine  party." 

Anthony  Ball  listened  with  rapidly  growing 
attention,  while  he  fingered  three  one  dollar  bills 

[19] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

wadded  into  the  bottom  of  his  pocket.  He  felt 
his  blood  stir  more  rapidly,  beating  in  his  ears; 
vague  pictures  thronged  his  brain  of  girls  with 
flaming  hair,  dexterous,  flashing  limbs,  white 
frills,  garters.  With  an  elaborate  air  of  uncon 
cern  he  asked : 

"Are  they  goodlookers?" 

"Oh,  Boy!  they  have  got  that  hidden  fascina 
tion." 

Anthony  made  a  swift  reckoning  of  the  price 
of  port ;  it  would  wipe  out  the  sum  he  was  getting 
together  for  badly  needed  baseball  shoes — Red 
hair! — He  could  count  on  no  further  assistance 
from  his  father  that  month;  the  machine-shop  at 
present  was  an  expense. 

"Got  any  coin?"  Meredith  demanded. 

"A  few." 

The  other  consulted  with  importance  the  osten 
tatious  watch.  "Just  the  minute,"  he  announced. 
"Come  along;  we  can  get  the  port  at  the  Eagle; 
we'll  have  a  Paris  of  a  time." 

Doctor  Allhop  offered  an  epigrammatic  parallel 
between  two  celebrated  planets. 

[20] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"I  need  new  ball  shoes,"  Anthony  temporized; 
"I  ripped  mine  the  last  game." 

Meredith  rose  impatiently.  "Charge  them  to 
the  family,"  he  ejaculated.  "But  if  you  don't 
want  to  get  in  on  this,  there  are  plenty  of  others. 
Two  or  three  dollars  are  easy  to  raise  in  a  good 
cause.  Why,  the  last  night  I  spent  in  the  city 
cost  me  seventeen  bucks." 

"I  guess  I'll  come."  Anthony  instinctively 
barred  his  sudden  eagerness  from  his  voice.  He 
rose,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  knees 
were  trembling.  His  face  was  hot  too — he  won 
dered  whether  it  were  red?  whether  it  would  be 
tray  his  inexperience?  "If  they  hand  me  any 
Sunday-school  stuff,"  he  proclaimed  bigly,  "I'll 
step  right  on  it;  I'm  considerably  wise  to  these 
dames." 

"This  is  the  real,  ruffled  goods."  Meredith 
settled  a  straw  hat  with  a  blue  band  on  his  sleek 
head,  and  Anthony,  dragging  a  faded  cap  from  his 
pocket,  drew  it  far  over  his  eyes.  William  Wil 
liams  regarded  them  enviously.  Craik's  thoughts 

[21] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

had  wandered  far,  his  lips  moved  silently.  And 
Doctor  Allhop  had  disappeared  into  the  front  of 
the  drugstore. 


[22] 


II 

4  4  T  ETS  get  along,"  Anthony  said  in  a  thick, 
I  A  strange  voice.  He  stumbled  forward; 
his  eyes  were  hot,  blurred;  he  tried  in  vain  to 
wink  clear  his  vision.  Suddenly  his  elbow  struck 
sharply  against  a  shelf,  and  there  was  an  answer 
ing  crash,  the  splintering  of  glass  smashing  upon 
the  floor.  Doctor  Allhop  hurried  in  to  the  scene 
of  the  disaster.  "You  young  bull  among  the  bot 
tles  !"  he  exclaimed  in  exasperated  tones;  "a 
whole  gross  of  perfume,  all  the  white  lilac,  lost." 
Anthony  Ball  stood  motionless,  embarrassed 
and  annoyed  by  the  accident;  and  great,  heavy 
coils  of  the  scent  rose  about  him;  they  filled  his 
nostrils  with  wave  on  wave  of  pungent  odor,  and 
stung  his  eyes  so  that  he  shut  them.  The  scent 
seemed  to  press  about  him,  to  obstruct  his  breath 
ing,  weigh  upon  his  heart;  he  put  out  a  hand  as 
if  to  ward  it  off.  It  seemed  to  him  that  great 
masses  of  the  flower  surrounded  him,  shutting 

[23] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

him  with  a  white,  sweet  wall  from  the  world.  He 
swayed  dizzily;  then  vanquished  the  illusion  with 
an  expression  of  regret  for  the  damage  he  had 
wrought. 

The  Doctor  was  on  his  knees,  brushing  together 
the  debris;  William  Williams  guffawed;  and 
Craik  smiled  idly.  Meredith  swore,  tapping  a 
cigarette  on  his  silver  case.  "You're  a  parlor 
ornament,  you  are,"  he  told  Anthony. 

A  feeling  of  impotence  enveloped  the  latter,  a 
sullen  resentment  against  an  occurrence  the  in 
evitable  result  of  which  must  descend  like  a 
shower  of  cold  water  upon  his  freshly-stirred  de 
sires.  "I  am  sorry  as  hell,  Doctor,"  he  repeated; 
"what  did  that  box  cost  you?" 

"Seven  seventy,"  Allhop  shot  impatiently  over 
his  shoulder. 

Anthony  produced  his  three  dollars,  and 
smoothing  them,  laid  the  sum  on  a  table.  "I  will 
stop  in  with  the  rest  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said. 
The  Doctor  rose  and  turned,  partly  mollified ;  but, 
to  avoid  the  argument  which  he  felt  might  fol 
low,  Anthony  strode  quickly  out  into  the  drug- 
[24]  " 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

store.  There  at  the  white  marble  soda-water 
fountain  a  bevy  of  youth  was  consuming  colorific 
cones  of  ice  cream,  drinking  sirupy  concoctions 
from  tall,  glistening  glasses.  They  called  him  by 
name,  but  he  passed  them  without  a  sign  of  rec 
ognition,  still  the  victim  of  his  jangling  sensibili 
ties. 


[25] 


Ill 

BAY  STREET  was  thronged;  the  shops  dis 
played  broad,  lighted  windows  filled  with 
their  various  merchandise;  in  front  of  a  produce 
store  a  row  of  chickens  hung  bare,  bright  blue 
and  yellow,  head  down;  from  within  came  the 
grinding  of  a  coffee  machine,  the  acrid  voices  of 
women  bargaining.  The  glass  doors  to  the  fire- 
engine  house  stood  open,  the  machines  glimmer 
ing  behind  a  wide  demilune  of  chairs  holding  a 
motley  assemblage  of  men.  Farther  along,  from 
above,  came  the  shuffle  of  dancing  feet,  the  thin, 
wiry  wail  of  violins.  At  the  corners  groups  of 
youths  congregated,  obstructing  the  passerby, 
smirking  and  indulging  in  sudden,  stridulous 
bursts  of  laughter.  The  sky  was  infinitely  re 
mote,  intensely,  tenderly  blue,  the  stars  white  as 
milk;  from  the  countryside  immediately  surround 
ing  came  the  scented  breaths  of  early  summer — 
the  trailing  sweetness  of  locust  blooms,  of  hidden 

[26] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

hedges  of  honeysuckle,  of  June  roses,  and  all  the 
pungent  aroma  of  growing  grasses,  leaves,  of 
fragile  and  momentary  flowers. 

Anthony  made  his  way  brusquely  through  the 
throng,  nodding  shortly  to  the  countless  saluta 
tions  that  marked  his  progress.  The  youths  all 
knew  him,  and  the  majority  of  the  men;  women 
stopped  in  their  sharp  haggling  to  smile  at  him; 
garlands  of  girls  gay  in  muslins  "Mistered" 
him  with  pretty  propriety,  or  followed  him  more 
boldly  over  their  shoulders  with  inviting  eyes. 

He  impatiently  disregarded  his  facile  popular 
ity;  the  tumult  within  him  settled  into  a  dull,  un 
reasoning  anger  against  the  universe  at  large. 
He  still  owed  Doctor  Allhop  four  dollars  and 
seventy  cents;  he  had  told  the  Doctor  that  he 
would  pay  to-morrow,  and  he  would  be  compelled 
to  go  to  his  father.  The  latter  was  a  rigorously 
just  man,  Anthony  gladly  recognized;  the  money 
would  be  instantly  forthcoming,  but  he  was  not 
anxious  to  recall  the  deficiencies  of  his  present 
position  to  his  father  just  then.  He  had  passed 
twenty,  and — beyond  his  ability  to  cause  a  base- 

[27] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

ball  to  travel  in  certain  unexpected  tangents,  and 
an  informal  comprehension  of  the  conduct  of 
automobiles — he  was  totally  without  assets,  and 
without  any  light  on  the  horizon. 

He  had  been  willing  to  work,  he  reminded  him 
self  resentfully,  but  bad  luck  had  overtaken  him 
at  every  turn.  The  venture  before  the  machine- 
shop — a  scheme  of  squabs,  the  profits  of  which, 
calculated  from  an  advertisement,  soared  with 
the  birthrate  of  those  prolific  birds,  had  been 
ruined  by  rats.  The  few  occasions  when  he  had 
neglected  to  feed  the  pigeons,  despite  the  frank 
and  censorious  opinion  of  the  family,  had  had  lit 
tle  or  nothing  to  do  with  that  misfortune.  And, 
before  that,  his  kennel  of  rabbit  dogs  had  met 
with  an  untimely  fate  when  a  favorite  bitch  had 
gone  mad,  and  a  careful  commonwealth  had  de 
creed  the  death  of  the  others.  If  his  mother 
could  but  be  won  from  the  negative  she  had  placed 
upon  baseball  as  a  professional  occupation,  he 
might  easily  rise  through  the  minor  leagues  to  a 
prideful  position  in  the  ranks  of  the  national 
pastime — "Lonnie  This"  was  paid  fourteen  hun- 

[28] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

dred  yearly  for  his  prowess  with  the  leather 
sphere,  "Hans  That's"  removal  from  one  to  an 
other  club  had  involved  thousands  of  dollars. 

He  heard  his  name  pronounced  in  a  peremp 
tory  manner,  and  stopped  to  see  the  relative  whose 
automobile  had  been  placed  in  his  care  cross  the 
street. 

"What  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  have  you  young 
dunces  done  to  my  car?"  the  older  man  demanded. 

"We  have  been  trying  to  locate  that  grinding," 
Anthony  told  him  in  as  conciliatory  a  manner  as 
he  could  assume. 

"Well,"  the  other  proceeded  angrily,  "you  have 
ruined  it  this  time;  the  gears  slide  around  like  a 
plate  of  ice  cream." 

"It  was  nothing  but  a  pile  of  junk  when  we 
took  it,"  Tony  exploded;  "why  don't  you  loosen 
up  and  get  a  real  car?" 

"I  took  it  to  Feedler's.  You  can  send  me  a 
bill  to-morrow." 

"There  will  be  no  bill.  I'm  sorry  you  were 
not  satisfied,  Sam." 

"You  are  the  most  shiftless  young  dog  in  the 
[29] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

county,"  the  other  told  him  in  kindlier  tones. 
"Why  don't  you  take  hold  of  something, 
Anthony?" 

Anthony  swung  on  his  heel  and  abruptly  de 
parted.  He  had  taken  hold,  he  thought  hotly, 
times  without  number,  but  everything  broke  in 
his  grasp. 

The  stores  on  Bay  Street  grew  more  infrequent, 
the  rank  of  monotonous  brick  dwellings  closed 
up,  family  groups  occupied  the  steps  that  led  to 
the  open  doors.  The  crowd  grew  less,  dwindling 
to  a  few  aimless  couples,  solitary  pedestrians. 
He  soon  stopped  before  his  home.  Opposite  the 
gaunt  skeleton  of  a  building  operation  rose  blackly 
against  the  pale  stars.  The  aged  lindens  above 
him,  thickly  leaved,  cast  an  intenser  gloom — filled 
with  the  warm,  musty  odor  of  the  sluiced  pave 
ment — about  the  white  marble  steps.  The  hall, 
open  before  him,  was  a  cavern  of  coolness;  be 
yond,  from  the  garden  shut  from  the  street  by  an 
intricate,  rusting  iron  fence,  he  heard  the  de 
liberate  tones  of  his  sister  Ellie.  Evidently  there 
was  a  visitor,  and  he  entered  the  hall  noiselessly, 

[30] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

intent  upon  passing  without  notice  to  his  room 
above.  But  Ellie  had  been  watching  for  him, 
and  called  before  he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 


[31] 


IV 

HE  made  his  way  diffidently  through  a  long 
window  to  the  lawn;  where  he  saw  his 
sister,  a  glimmering,  whitish  shape  in  the  heavily 
overgrown  garden,  conversing  with  a  figure  with 
out  form  or  detail,  by  a  trellis  sagging  beneath  a 
verdurous  weight. 

"Oh,  Tony!"  she  called:  "here's  Mrs.  Dreen." 

He  leaned  forward  awkwardly,  and  grasped  a 

slim,  jewelled  hand.     "I  didn't  know  you  were 

back  from  France,"  he  told  the  indistinct  woman 

before  him. 

"But  you  read  that  Mr.  Dreen  had  resigned  the 
consulship  at  Lyons,"  a  delicate,  rounded  voice 
rejoined,  "and  you  should  have  guessed  that  we 
would  come  home  to  Ellerton.  My  dear  Ellie," 
she  turned  to  the  girl,  "you  have  no  idea  how  de 
lighted  James  is  at  being  here  once  more.  He 
has  given  the  farmer  notice,  and  insists  that  he 
is  going  to  cultivate  his  own  acres.  He  was  up 
[32] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

this  morning  at  six;  fancy,  after  France  and  his 
late  dejeuner.  And  Eliza  adores  it;  she  spends 
the  day  with  a  gardener,  planning  flowerbeds." 

Anthony  slipped  into  an  easy  posture  on  the 
thick,  damp  sod.  Although  he  had  not  seen  Mrs. 
James  Dreen  since  his  childhood,  when  she  had 
accompanied  her  husband  abroad  to  a  consular 
post,  he  still  retained  a  pleasant  memory  of  her 
magnetic  and  precise  charm,  the  impression  of  her 
harmonious  personality,  the  beauty  of  her  apparel 
and  rings. 

"How  is  Eliza?"  he  asked  politely,  and  with  no 
inward  interest.  "She  must  be  a  regular  beauty 
by  now." 

"No,"  Mrs.  Dreen  returned  crisply,  "she  is  not 
particularly  good-looking,  but  she  has  always 
told  me  the  truth.  Eliza  is  a  dear."  Anthony 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  flipped  the  match  in  a 
minute  gold  arc,  extinguished  in  the  night. 

"I  am  decidedly  uneasy  about  Eliza  though," 
she  continued  to  Ellie;  "to  tell  the  truth,  I  am 
not  sure  how  she  will  take  over  here.  She  is  a 
serious  child;  I  would  say  temperamental,  but 

[33] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

that's  such  an  impossible  word.  She  is  abso 
lutely  and  transparently  honest  and  outspoken — 
it's  ghastly  at  times.  The  most  unworldly  per 
son  alive;  with  her,  thought  and  action  are  one, 
and  often  as  not  her  thoughts  are  appalling.  All 
that,  you  know,  doesn't  spell  wisdom  for  a  girl. 

"Yet  James  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  ...  make 
her  harder.  A  great  deal  of  care.  ...  If  she  is 
my  daughter,  Ellie,  she  is  exquisite — so  sensitive, 
sympathetic.  ..." 

Anthony,  absorbed  in  the  misfortune  that  had 
overtaken  the  machine-shop,  the  impending,  in 
evitable  interview  with  his  father,  so  justly  rigor 
ous,  hardly  gathered  the  sense  of  Mrs.  Dreen's 
discourse.  Occasional  phrases,  familiar  and  un 
familiar  terms,  pierced  his  abstraction.  "Colom- 
bin's."  "James'  siatica."  "p't  toque  .  .  .  Ca- 
mille  Marchais."  Then  her  words,  centering 
about  a  statement  that  had  captured  his  attention, 
became  coherent,  significant. 

"Only  a  small  affair,"  Mrs.  Dreen  explained; 
"to  introduce  Eliza  to  Ellerton.  Nothing  on  a 
large  scale  until  winter.  .  .  .  Dancing,  or  rather 

[34] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

what  goes  down  for  dancing  to-day.  I  am  asking 
our  old  intimates,  and  have  written  a  few  informal 
cards." 

An  automobile  drew  up  smoothly  before  the 
Balls';  its  rear  light  winked  like  an  angry  red  eye 
through  the  iron  fence.  Mrs.  Dreen  rose.  In 
the  gloom  her  face  was  girlish;  there  was  a  blur 
of  lace  at  her  throat,  a  glimmer  of  emeralds. 
"Mind  you  come,"  she  commanded  Ellie.  "And 
you  too,  without  fail,"  to  Anthony.  "Now  that 
Hydrangea  House  is  open  again  we  must  have  our 
friends  about  us.  Heavens!  Howard  Ball's 
children  and  mine  grown  up!"  She  moved 
gracefully  across  to  a  garden  gate.  Anthony  as 
sisted  her  into  the  motor  car;  the  door  closed  with 
a  snap. 

Ellie  had  sunk  back  into  her  chair,  and  was 
idly  twisting  her  fingers  in  the  grass  at  her  side. 
At  her  back  the  ivied  wall  of  the  house  beyond 
stirred  faintly  with  sparrows.  A  misshapen 
moon  swung  up  through  the  building  frame  oppo 
site,  and  faint  shadows  unfolded  on  the  grass. 
Anthony  flung  himself  moodily  by  his  sister. 

[35] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"Sam's  taken  his  car  from  us,"  he  informed 
her;  "that  will  about  shut  up  the  shop." 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  bring  back  the  screw 
drivers." 

"To-morrow." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Tony?" 

"Tell  me." 

"A  big  strong  fellow  .  .  .  there  must  be  some 
thing." 

"Mother  won't  let  me  play  ball  in  the  leagues." 

"Perhaps  she  will;  we'll  talk  to  her;  it's  better 
than  nothing." 

"I  broke  a  box  of  rotten  perfume  at  the  drug 
store,  and  owe  the  Doctor  four  seventy." 

"It's  too  bad — father  is  never  free  from  little 
worries;  you  are  always  getting  into  difficulties. 
You  are  different  from  other  boys,  Anthony — 
there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  place  in  life  for  you ; 
or  you  don't  make  a  place,  I  can't  tell  which. 
You  have  no  constructive  sense,  and  no  feeling  of 
responsibility.  What  do  you  want  to  do  with 
yourself?" 

"I  don't  know,  Ellie,  honestly,"  he  confessed. 
[36] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"I  try  like  the  devil,  make  a  thousand  resolu 
tions,  and  then — I  go  off  fishing.  Or  if  I  don't 
things  go  to  the  rats  just  the  same." 

"Well,"  she  rose,  "I'm  going  up.  Don't 
bother  father  about  that  money,  I'll  let  you  have 
it.  It's  perfectly  useless  to  tell  you  to  return  it." 

"I  swear  you  will  get  it  next  week,"  he  pro 
claimed  gratefully.  "The  baseball  association 
owes  me  for  two  games." 

"Haven't  you  promised  it?" 

"That's  so!"  he  exclaimed  ruefully.  She 
laughed  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 


[37] 


A  BLACK  depression  settled  over  him;  life 
appeared  a  huge  conspiracy  against  his 
success,  his  happiness.  The  future,  propounded 
by  Ellie,  was  suddenly  stripped  of  all  glamor,  de 
nuded  of  all  optimistic  dreams;  he  passed 
through  one  of  those  dismaying  periods  when  the 
world,  himself,  his  pretensions,  were  revealed  in 
the  clear  and  pitiless  light  of  reality.  His 
friends,  his  circumstances,  his  hopes,  held  out  no 
promise,  no  thought  of  pleasure.  Behind  him 
his  life  lay  revealed  as  a  series  of  failures,  before 
him  it  was  plotted  without  security.  The  plan, 
the  order,  that  others  saw,  or  said  that  they  saw, 
presented  to  him  only  a  cloudy  confusion.  The 
rewards  for  which  others  struggled,  aspired, 
which  they  found  indispensable,  had  been  ever 
meaningless  to  him — to  money  he  never  gave  a 
thought;  a  society  organized  into  calls,  dancing, 
incomprehensible  and  petty  values,  never  rose 
above  his  horizon. 

[38] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

He  was  happiest  in  the  freedom  of  the  open, 
the  woods;  in  the  easy  company  of  casual  friends, 
black  or  white;  kindly  comment.  He  would 
spend  a  day  with  his  dogs  and  gun,  sitting  on  a 
stump  in  a  snowy  field,  listening  to  the  eager 
yelping  in  the  distant,  blue  wood,  shooting  a  rare 
rabbit.  Or  tramping  tirelessly  the  leafy  paths  of 
autumn.  Or,  better  still,  swinging  through  the 
miry  October  swales,  coonhunting  after  midnight 
with  lantern  and  climbers. 

But  now  those  pleasures,  in  anticipated  retro 
spect,  appeared  bald,  unprofitable.  Prolonged 
indefinitely,  he  divined,  they  would  pall;  they  did 
not  offer  adequate  material,  aim,  for  the  years. 
For  a  moment  he  saw,  grinning  hatefully  at  him, 
the  specter  of  what  he  might  become;  he  passed 
such  men,  collarless  and  unshaven,  on  the  street 
corners  and  flung  them  a  scornful  salutation.  He 
had  paid  for  their  drinks,  hearkening  negligently 
to  their  stereotyped  stories,  secretly  gibing  at  their 
obvious  good-fellowship,  their  eager,  tremulous 
smiles.  They  had  been,  in  their  day,  great  rab 
bit  hunters  .  .  .  detestable. 

[39] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

The  mood  vanished,  the  present  closed  merci 
fully  about  him,  leaving  him  merely  defiant. 
The  town  clock  announced  the  hour  in  slow,  jar 
ring  notes.  A  light  shone  above  from  Ellie's 
room,  and  he  heard  his  father's  deliberate  foot 
steps  in  the  hall,  returning  from  the  Ellerton 
Club,  where,  as  was  his  invariable  nightly  habit, 
he  had  played  cooncan.  The  moon,  freed  from 
the  towering  beams,  was  without  color. 

Anthony  rose,  and  flung  away  a  cold,  stale 
cigarette;  the  world  was  just  like  that — stale  and 
cold.  He  was  proceeding  toward  the  house, 
when  he  heard  footfalls  on  the  pavement;  in  the 
obscurity  he  barely  made -out  a  man  and  a  woman, 
walking  so  closely  as  to  be  hardly  distinguish- 
ably  separate.  They  stopped  by  the  fence,  only 
a  few  feet  from  where  he  stood  concealed  in  the 
shadows,  and  the  man  took  the  woman's  hands  in 
his  own,  bending  over  her.  Then,  suddenly, 
clasping  her  in  his  arms,  he  covered  her  upturned 
face  with  passionate  kisses.  With  a  little,  fright 
ened  gasp  she  clung  to  his  shoulders.  The  kisses 
ceased.  Their  strained,  desperate  embrace  re- 

[40] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

mained  unbroken.  It  seemed  that  each  was  the 
only  reality  for  the  other  in  a  world  of  unsubstan 
tial  gloom,  veiled  in  the  shifting,  silvery  mist  of 
a  cold  and  removed  planet.  The  woman 
breathed  with  a  deep,  sobbing  inspiration;  and, 
when  she  spoke,  Anthony  realized  that  he  was 
eavesdropping,  and  walked  swiftly  and  cau 
tiously  within. 

But  the  memory  of  that  embrace  accompanied 
him  up  the  stairs,  into  his  room.  It  haunted  him 
as  he  lay,  cool  and  nearly  bare,  on  his  bed.  It 
filled  him  with  a  profound  and  unreasoning  mel 
ancholy,  new  to  his  customary,  unconscious  ani 
mal  exuberance.  All  at  once  he  thought  of  the 
red-haired  girl  who  liked  port  wine;  and,  as  he 
fell  asleep,  she  stood  before  him,  leering  slyly 
at  the  side  of  that  other  broken  shape  which 
threatened  him  out  of  the  future. 


[41] 


VI 

THE  shed  that  held  the  machine-shop  and 
garage  fronted  upon  an  informal  lane 
skirting  the  verdant  border  of  the  town.  Beyond 
the  fence  opposite  a  broad  pasturage  dipped  and 
rose  to  the  blackened  ruins  of  a  considerable  brick 
mansion,  now  tenanted  by  a  provident  colony  of 
Italians;  farther  hill  topped  green  hill,  the  or 
chards  drawn  like  silvery  scarves  about  their 
shoulders,  undulating  to  the  sky.  Back  of  the 
shed  ranged  the  red  roofs  and  tree-tops  of  the 
town. 

When  Anthony  arrived  at  the  seat  of  his  in 
dustry  the  grass  was  flashing  with  dew  and  the 
air  athrill  with  the  buoyant  piping  of  robins. 
He  found  the  door  open,  and  Alfred  Craik  await 
ing  him. 

"She's  gone/7  Alfred  informed  him. 

"Sam  told  me  last  night;  it  was  your  infernal 
tinkering  .  .  .  you  can't  let  a  machine  alone." 

[42] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

Anthony  dropped  beside  the  other  on  the  door 
sill. 

"Could  we  get  another  car,  do  you  think?" 
Alfred  demanded.  "I  had  almost  finished  a 
humming  experiment  on  Sam's." 

"This  garage  is  closed,"  Anthony  pronounced; 
"it's  out  of  existence.  The  family  are  yelping 
for  the  screw  drivers.  What  do  we  owe?" 

"Three  ninety  to  Feedler  for  'gas/  and  a 
month's  rent." 

"We're  bankrupt,"  the  other  immediately  de 
clared.  He  rose,  and  proceeded  to  collect  the 
tools  that  littered  the  floor;  then  he  removed  the 
sign,  "Ball  and  Craik.  Machine  Shop  and  Ga 
rage"  from  the  door,  and  the  shed  relapsed  into 
its  nondescript,  somnolent  decay. 

"There's  a  game  with  Honeydale  to-day,"  An 
thony  resumed  his  seat;  "I'm  to  pitch  that,  and 
another  Saturday,  and  hear  me,  boy,  I  r^ed  the 
money." 

Alfred  gazed  over  the  orchards,  beyond  the 
hills  into  the  sky,  and  made  no  answer.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  lost  in  a  vision  of  gloriously 

[43] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

disrupted  machinery.  His  silence  spread  to  An 
thony,  who  settled  back  with  a  cigarette  into  the 
drowsy  stillness.  The  minutes  passed,  hovering 
like  bees,  and  merged  into  an  hour.  They  could 
hear  a  horse  champing  in  the  pasture;  the  wail  of 
an  Italian  infant  came  to  them  thinly  across  the 
green;  behind  them  sounded  mellow  the  tin  horn 
of  the  shad  vendor. 

Anthony  roused  himself  reluctantly,  recalling 
the  debt  he  had  to  discharge  at  the  drugstore. 
Ellie's  crisp  five  dollar  bill  lay  in  his  pocket. 
"Later/'  he  nodded,  and  made  his  way  over  the 
shady  brick  pavements,  through  the  cool  per 
spective  of  maple-lined  streets,  where  summer 
dresses  fluttered  in  spots  of  subdued,  bright  color, 
to  Doctor  Allhop's.  The  Doctor  was  absent,  and 
Anthony  tendered  the  money,  with  a  short  expla 
nation,  to  the  clerk.  The  latter  smartly  rang  the 
amount  on  the  cash  register,  and  placed  thirty 
cents  on  the  counter. 

"Two  packs  of  Dulcinas,"  Anthony  required, 
and  dropped  the  cigarettes  into  his  pocket.  He 
made  his  way  in  a  leisurely  fashion  toward  home 

[44] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

and  the  midday  meal.  At  the  table  his  mother's 
keen  grey  eyes  regarded  him  with  affectionate  con 
cern.  "How  do  you  feel,  Tony?"  she  asked. 
"You  were  coughing  last  night  .  .  .  take  such 
wretched  care  of  yourself — "  His  father  glanced 
up  from  the  half-masted  sheet  of  the  Ellerton 
Bugle.  He  was  a  spare  man  of  few  words,  with 
a  square-cut  beard  about  the  lower  part  of  an 
austere  countenance.  "What's  the  matter  with 
him?"  he  demanded  crisply. 

"Nothing,"  Anthony  hastily  protested;  "you 
ought  to  know  mother." 

After  luncheon  he  extended  himself  smoking  on 
the  horsehair  sofa  in  the  front  room.  It  was  a 
spacious  chamber,  with  a  polished  floor,  and 
well-worn,  comfortable  chairs;  in  a  corner  a  lac 
quered  table  bore  old  blue  Canton  china;  by  the 
door  a  jar  of  roses  dropped  their  pink  petals;  over 
the  fireplace  a  tall  mirror  held  all  in  silvery 
replica. 

"Thirty  cents,  please,"  Ellie  demanded;  "I 
must  get  some  stamps." 

A  wave  of  conscious  guilt,  angry  self-condem- 
[45] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

nation,  swept  over  him.  "I'm  sorry,  Ellie,"  he 
admitted;  "I  haven't  got  it." 

She  stood  regarding  him  for  a  moment  with 
cold  disapproval.  She  was  a  slender  woman, 
past  thirty,  with  dark,  regular  features  and  tran 
quil  eyes;  carelessly  dressed,  her  hair  slipped 
over  her  shoulder  in  a  cool  plait. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  repeated,  "I  didn't  think." 

"But  it  wasn't  yours." 

"You'll  get  every  pretty  penny  of  it."  He  rose 
and  in  orderly  discretion  sought  his  room,  where 
he  changed  into  his  worn,  grey  playing  flannels. 


[46] 


VII 

A  HIGH  board  fence  enclosed  the  Grounds  of 
the  Ellerton  Baseball  Association;  over 
one  side  rose  the  rude  scaffolding  of  a  grand 
stand,  protected  from  sun  and  rain  by  a  cover 
ing  of  tarred  planks;  a  circular  opening  by  a  nar 
row  entrance  framed  the  ticket  seller;  while 
around  the  base  of  the  fence,  located  conveniently 
to  a  small  boy's  eye,  ran  a  girdle  of  unnatural 
knotholes,  highly  improved  cracks,  through  which 
an  occasional  fleeting  form  might  be  observed,  a 
segment  of  torn  sod,  and  the  fence  opposite. 

A  shallow  flood  of  spectators,  drawn  from  the 
various  quarters  of  the  town,  converged  in  a  dense 
stream  at  the  entrance  to  the  Grounds ;  troops  of 
girls  with  brightly-hued  ribbands  about  their  vi 
vacious  arms,  boisterous  or  superior  squads  of 
young  males,  alternated  with  their  less  volatile 
elders — shabby  and  dejected  men,  out  at  elbows 
and  of  work,  in  search  of  the  respite  of  the  sun 
[47] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

and  the  play;  baseball  enthusiasts,  rotund  indi 
viduals  with  ruddy  countenances,  saturnine  ex 
perts  with  scorecards. 

Anthony  observed  the  throng  indifferently  as 
he  drew  near  the  scene  of  his  repeated  past  tri 
umphs,  the  metal  plates  in  his  shoes  grinding 
into  the  pavement.  A  small  procession  followed 
him,  led  by  a  colored  youth — to  whose  dilapidated 
garments  clung  the  unmistakable  straws  and 
aroma  of  the  stable — bearing  aloft  Anthony's 
glove,  and  "softing"  it  vigorously  from  a  nat 
ural  source.  A  boy  as  round  and  succulent  as  a 
boiled  pudding,  with  Anthony's  cap  beneath  his 
arm,  leaving  behind  him  a  trail  of  peanut  shells, 
brought  up  the  rear  of  this  democratic  escort. 

There  was  in  Anthony's  mind  little  question  of 
his  ability  to  triumph  that  afternoon  over  his 
opponents  from  a  near-by  town;  their  "battery," 
he  told  himself,  was  an  open  book  to  him — a 
slow,  dropping  ball  here,  a  speedy  one  across  the 
fingers  of  that  red-haired  fielder  who  habitually 
flinched  .  .  .  and  yet  he  wished  that  it  had  not 
been  so  hot.  He  thought  of  the  game  without 

[48] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

particular  pleasure;  he  was  conscious  of  a  lack 
of  energy;  his  thoughts,  occupied  with  Ellie's  pat 
ent  contempt,  stung  him  waspishly. 

A  throng  of  players  and  hangers-on  filled  the 
contracted  dressing  quarters  beneath  the  grand 
stand,  and  he  was  instantly  surrounded  by  vocif 
erous  familiars.  The  captain  of  the  Ellerton 
team  drew  him  aside,  and  tersely  outlined  a  policy 
of  play,  awaiting  his  opinion.  Anthony  nodded 
gravely:  suddenly  he  found  the  other's  earnest 
ness  a  little  absurd — the  fate  of  a  nation  appeared 
to  color  his  accents,  to  hang  upon  the  result  of 
his  decision.  "Sure,"  he  said  absently,  "keep 
the  field  in;  they  won't  hit  me." 

The  other  regarded  him  with  a  slight  frown. 
"Hate  yourself  to-day,  don't  you?"  he  remarked. 
"Lay  that  crowd  cold  on  the  plate,  though,"  he 
added;  "there's  a  man  here  from  the  major  league 
to  look  you  over.  Hinkle  told  my  old  man." 

A  quickening  of  interest  took  possession  of 
Anthony;  they  had  heard  of  him  in  the  cities, 
they  had  discovered  him  worthy  of  the  journey 
to  Ellerton,  of  investigation.  A  vision  of  his 

[49] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

name  acclaimed  from  coast  to  coast,  his  picture 
in  the  playing  garb  of  a  famous  organization  fill 
ing  the  Sunday  sheets,  occupied  his  mind  as  he 
turned  toward  the  field.  The  captain  called 
mysteriously,  "Don't  get  patted  up  with  any  pur 
ple  stuff  handed  you  before  the  game." 

The  opposing  team,  widely  scattered,  were 
warming;  a  pitcher,  assuming  the  attitudes  of  an 
agonizing  cramp,  was  indulging  in  preliminary 
practise;  the  ball  sped  with  a  dull,  regular  thud 
into  the  catcher's  mit.  A  ball  was  tossed  to  An 
thony,  a  team  mate  backed  against  the  fence,  and, 
raising  his  hands  on  high,  he  apparently  over 
came  all  the  natural  laws  of  flight.  He  was 
aware  of  Hinkle,  prosperous  proprietor  of  the  El- 
lerton  Pool  Parlor,  at  his  back  with  a  stranger, 
an  ungainly  man,  close-lipped,  keen  of  vision. 
There  were  intimations  of  approval.  "A  fine 
wing,"  the  stranger  said.  "He's  got  'em  all," 
Hinkle  declared.  "Hundreds  of  lads  can  pitch 
a  good  game  now  and  again,"  the  other  told  him. 
"They  are  amatoors.  One  in  a  thousand,  in  ten 
thousand,  can  play  ball  all  the  time;  they're  pro- 

[SO] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

fessionals;  they're  worth  money  ...  I  want  to 
see  him  act.  .  .  ."  They  moved  away. 

The  players  were  called  in  from  the  field,  the 
captains  bent  over  a  tossed  coin;  and,  first  to  bat, 
the  Ellerton  team  ranged  itself  on  benches. 
Then,  as  the  catcher  was  drawing  on  his  mask, 
Hinkle  and  another  familiar  town  figure,  who 
dedicated  his  days  to  speeding  weedy  horses  in 
red  flannel  anklets  from  a  precarious  wire  vehicle, 
stepped  forward  from  the  grandstand.  "Mr. 
Anthony  Ball!"  Hinkle  called.  A  sudden,  tense 
silence  enveloped  the  spectators,  the  players 
stopped  curiously.  Anthony  turned  with  mingled 
reluctance  and  surprise.  Something  shone  in 
Hinkle's  hand :  he  saw  that  it  was  a  watch.  "As 
a  testimonial  from  your  Ellerton  friends,"  the 
other  began  loudly.  Anthony's  confused  mind 
lost  part  of  the  short  oration  which  followed 
".  .  .  recognition  of  your  sportsmanship  and 
skill  .  .  .  happy  disposition.  The  good  fame  of 
the  Ellerton  Baseball  team  .  .  .  predict  great  fu 
ture  on  the  national  diamond." 

A  storm  of  applause  from  the  grandstand  rip- 
[51] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

pled  away  in  opposite  directions  along  the  line 
sitting  by  the  fence;  boys  with  their  mouths  full 
of  fingers  whistled  incredibly.  Hinkle  held  out 
the  watch,  but  Anthony's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  The  former  shook  the  substantial  mark 
of  Ellerton's  approval,  so  that  the  ornate  fob  glit 
tered  in  the  sun,  but  Anthony's  arms  remained 
motionless  at  his  sides.  "Take  it,  you  leather- 
kop,"  a  voice  whispered  fiercely  in  his  ear.  And 
with  a  start,  he  awkwardly  grasped  the  gift. 
"Thank  you,"  he  muttered,  his  voice  inaudible 
five  yards  away.  He  wished  with  passionate  re 
sentment  that  the  fiend  who  was  yelling  "Speech! " 
would  drop  dead.  He  glanced  up,  and  the  sight 
of  all  those  excited,  kindly  faces  deepened  his  con 
fusion  until  it  rose  in  a  lump  in  his  throat,  blurred 
his  vision  in  an  idiotic,  childish  manner.  "Ah, 
call  the  game,  can't  you,"  he  urged  over  his  shoul 
der. 

The  first  half  inning  was  soon  over,  without 
incident;  and,  as  Anthony  walked  to  the  pitcher's 
"box,"  the  necessity  to  surpass  all  previous  efforts 
was  impressed  upon  him  by  the  watch,  by  the 

[52] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

presence  of  that  spectator  from  a  major  league 
who  had  come  to  see  him  "act."  He  wished 
again,  in  a  passing  irritation,  that  it  had  not  been 
so  hot.  Behind  the  batter  he  could  see  the  coun 
tenance  of  "Kag"  Lippit  staring  through  the  wires 
of  his  mask.  "Kag"  executed  a  cabalistic  signal 
with  his  left  arm,  and  Anthony  pitched.  The 
umpire  hoarsely  informed  the  world  at  large  that 
it  had  been  a  strike.  A  blast  of  derisive  catcalls 
arose  from  the  Ellerton  partisans ;  another  strike, 
shriller  catcalls,  and  the  batter  retired  after  a 
third  ineffectual  lunge  amid  a  tempest  of  banter. 

The  second  batter  hit  a  feeble  fly  negligently 
attached  by  the  third  baseman,  who  "put  it  over 
to  first"  in  the  exuberance  of  his  contempt.  The 
third  Anthony  disposed  of  with  equal  brevity. 

He  next  faced  the  pitcher,  and,  succumbing  to 
the  pressure  of  extraordinary  events,  he  swung 
the  bat  with  a  tremendous  effort,  and  the  flattened 
ball  described  a  wide  arc  into  the  ready  palms  of 
the  right  fielder.  "You're  out!"  the  umpire  vo 
ciferated.  The  uncritical  portion  of  the  spec 
tators  voiced  their  pleasure  in  the  Homeric  length 

[53] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

of  the  hit,  but  the  captain  was  contemptuously 
cold  as  Anthony  returned  to  the  bench.  "The 
high  school  hero,"  he  remarked;  "little  Willie  the 
Wallop.  If  you  don't  bat  to  the  game,"  he  added 
in  a  different  tone,  "if  you  were  Eddie  Plank  I'd 
bench  you." 

That  inning  the  Ellerton  team  scored  a  run:  a 
youth  hurtling  headlong  through  the  dust  pressed 
his  cheek  affectionately  upon  the  dingy  square  of 
marble  dignified  by  the  title  of  home,  while  a 
second  hammered  him  violently  in  the  groin  with 
the  ball;  one  chorus  shrieked,  "out  by  a  block!" 
another,  "safe!  safe!"  he  was  "safe  as  safe!"  the 
girls  declared.  The  umpire's  voice  rose  authori 
tatively  above  the  tumult.  "Play  ball!  he's 
safe!" 

Anthony  pitched  that  inning  faultlessly;  never 
had  ball  obeyed  him  so  absolutely;  it  dropped, 
swung  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  revolved  or  sped 
dead.  The  batters  faded  away  like  ice  cream  at 
a  church  supper.  As  he  came  in  from  the  "box" 
the  close-lipped  stranger  strode  forward  and 
grasped  his  shoulder.  "I  want  to  see  you  after 

[54] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

the  game,"  he  declared;  "don't  sign  up  with  no 
one  else.  I'm  from — "  he  whispered  his  persua 
sive  source  in  Anthony's  ear.  The  captain  com 
mended  him  pithily.  "He's  got  'em  all,"  Hinkle 
proclaimed  to  the  assembled  throng. 

When  Anthony  batted  next  it  was  with  calcu 
lated  nicety;  he  drove  the  ball  between  short-stop 
and  second  base,  and,  by  dint  of  hard  running, 
achieved  a  rapturously  acclaimed  "two  bagger." 
The  captain  then  merely  tapped  the  ball — breath 
lessly  it  was  described  as  a  "sacrifice" — and  An 
thony  moved  to  the  third  base,  and  a  succeeding 
hit  sent  him  "home."  Another  run  was  added 
to  the  Ellerton  score,  it  now  stood  three  to  nothing 
in  their  favor,  before  Anthony  returned  to  the 
dusty  depression  from  which  he  pitched. 

He  was  suddenly  and  unaccountably  tired ;  the 
cursed  heat  was  worse  than  ever,  he  thought,  wip 
ing  a  wet  palm  on  his  grimy  leg;  above  him  the 
sky  was  an  unbroken,  blazing  expanse  of  blue; 
short,  sharp  shadows  shifted  under  the  feet  of  the 
tense  players;  in  the  shade  of  the  grandstand  the 
dresses,  mostly  white,  showed  here  and  there  a 

[55] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

vivid  note  of  yellow  and  violet,  the  crisp  note  of 
crimson.  The  throbbing  song  of  a  thrush  floated 
from  a  far  hedge  ...  it  stirred  him  with  a  new 
unrest,  dissatisfaction.  .  .  .  "Kag"  looked  like 
a  damned  fool  grimacing  at  him  through  the  wire 
mask — exactly  like  a  monkey  in  a  cage.  The  um 
pire  in  his  inflated  protector,  crouching  in  a  posi 
tion  of  rigorous  attention,  resembled  a  turtle.  He 
pitched,  and  a  spurt  of  dust  rose  a  yard  before  the 
plate.  "Ball  one!"  That  wouldn't  do,  he  told 
himself,  recalling  the  substantially  expressed  con 
fidence,  esteem,  of  Ellerton.  The  captain's  sibi 
lant  "steady"  was  like  the  flick  of  a  whip.  With 
an  effort  which  taxed  his  every  resource  he  mar 
shalled  his  relaxed  muscles  into  an  aching  en 
deavor,  centered  his  unstable  thoughts  upon  the 
exigencies  of  the  play,  and  retired  the  batter  be 
fore  him.  But  he  struck  the  next  upon  the  arm, 
sending  him,  nursing  the  bruise,  to  first  base. 
He  saw  the  captain  grimly  wave  the  outfielders 
farther  back;  and,  determined,  resentful,  he 
struck  out  in  machine-like  order  the  remaining 
batters.  But  he  was  unconscionably  weary;  his 

[56] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

arm  felt  as  though  he  had  been  pitching  for  a 
week,  a  month;  and  he  dropped  limp  and  surly 
upon  the  sod  at  a  distance  from  the  players'  bench. 

He  batted  once  more,  but  a  third  "out"  on  the 
bases  saved  him  from  the  fluke  which,  he  had  been 
certain,  must  inevitably  follow.  As  he  stood  with 
the  ball  in  his  hand,  facing  the  batter,  he  was  con 
scious  of  an  air  of  uncertainty  spreading  like  a 
contagion  through  the  Ellerton  team;  he  recog 
nized  that  it  radiated  from  himself — his  lack  of 
confidence  magnified  to  a  promised  panic.  The 
center  fielder  fumbled  a  fly  directly  in  his  hands ; 
there  was  a  shout  from  Ellerton's  opponents, 
silence  in  the  ranks  of  Ellerton. 

Anthony  pitched  with  a  tremendous  effort,  his 
arm  felt  brittle;  it  felt  as  though  it  were  made  of 
glass,  and  would  break  off.  He  could  put  no 
speed  into  the  ball,  his  fingers  seemed  swollen,  he 
was  unable  to  grip  it  properly,  control  its  direc 
tion.  The  red-haired  player  whom  he  had  de 
spised  for  his  habitual  flinching  faced  him,  and 
Anthony  essayed  to  drive  the  ball  across  his  fin 
gers.  The  bat  swung  with  a  vicious  crack  upon 

[57] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

the  leather  sphere,  a  fielder  ran  vainly  back, 
back.  .  .  .  The  runner  passed  first  base,  and, 
wildly  urged  by  a  small  but  adequately  vocal 
group  of  well-wishers,  scorned  second  base,  re 
pudiated  third,  from  which  another  player  tallied 
a  run,  and  loafed  magnificently  "home." 

From  the  fence  some  one  called  to  Anthony, 
"What  time  is  it?"  and  achieved  a  huge  success 
among  the  opposition.  His  captain  besought  him 
desperately  to  "come  back.  Where's  your  pep' 
went?  you're  pitching  like  a  dead  man!"  Con 
fusion  fell  upon  the  team  in  the  field,  and,  in  its 
train,  a  series  of  blunders  which  cost  five  runs. 
After  the  inning  Anthony  stood  with  a  lowered, 
moody  countenance.  "You're  out  of  this  game," 
the  captain  shot  at  him;  "go  home  and  play  with 
mother  and  the  girls." 

He  left  the  field  under  a  dropping  fire  of  witti 
cisms,  feebly  stemmed  by  half-hearted  applause; 
Hinkle  frowned  heavily  at  him ;  the  man  from  the 
major  league  had  gone.  Anthony  proceeded  di 
rectly  through  the  gate  and  over  the  street  toward 
home.  The  taste  of  profound  humiliation,  of 

[58] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

failure,  was  bitter  in  his  mouth — that  failure 
which  seemed  to  lie  at  the  heart  of  everything  he 
attempted,  which  followed  him  like  his  shadow, 
like  the  malicious  influence  of  a  powerful  spite, 
an  enmity  personal  and  unrelenting.  The  sun 
centered  its  heat  upon  his  bared  head  with  an  es 
pecial  fervor;  the  watch,  thrust  hastily  in  a  pocket, 
swung  against  his  leg  mockingly;  the  abrupt  de 
parture  of  that  keen-eyed  spectator  added  its  hurt 
to  his  self-pride. 


[59] 


VIII 

HE  maintained  a  surly  silence  throughout 
dinner;  but  later,  on  discovering  a  dress 
shirt  laid  in  readiness  on  his  bed,  and  recalling 
the  purport  of  Mrs.  James  Dreen's  call,  he  an 
nounced  on  the  crest  of  an  overwhelming  exas 
peration  that  he  would  go  to  no  condemned  dance. 
"Ellie  can't  go  alone,"  his  mother  told  him  from 
the  landing  below;  "and  do  hurry,  Tony,  she's 
almost  dressed."  The  flaring  gas  jet  seemed  to 
coat  his  room  with  a  heavy,  yellow  dust ;  the  night 
came  in  at  the  window  as  thickly  purple  as  though 
it  had  been  paint  squeezed  from  a  tube.  He 
slowly  assembled  his  formal  clothes.  An  ex 
tended  search  failed  to  reveal  the  whereabouts  of 
his  studs,  and  he  pressed  into  service  the  bone  but 
tons  inserted  by  the  laundry.  The  shirt  was  in 
tolerably  hot  and  uncomfortable,  his  trousers 
tight,  a  white  waistcoat  badly  shrunken;  but  a  col 
lar  with  a  frayed  and  iron-like  edge  the  crowning 

[60] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

misery.  When,  finally,  he  was  garbed,  he  felt 
as  though  he  had  been  compressed  into  an  iron 
boiler;  a  stream  of  perspiration  coursed  down  the 
exact  middle  of  his  back;  his  tie  hung  in  a  limp 
knot.  Fiery  epithets  escaped  at  frequent  inter 
vals. 

On  the  contrary,  Ellie  was  delightfully  cool, 
orderly;  she  waved  a  lacy  fan  in  her  long,  delicate 
fingers.  The  public  vehicle  engaged  to  convey 
them  to  the  Dreens',  a  mile  or  more  beyond  the 
town,  drew  up  at  the  door  with  a  clatter  of  hoofs. 
It  was  an  aged  hack,  with  complaining  joints, 
and  a  loose  iron  tire.  A  musty  smell  rose  from 
the  threadbare  cushions,  the  rotting  leather.  The 
horse's  hoofs  were  now  muffled  in  the  dusty  coun 
try  road ;  shadowy  hedges  were  passed,  dim,  white 
farmhouses  with  orange,  lighted  windows;  the 
horizon  outspread  in  a  shimmering  blue  circle  un 
der  the  swimming  stars. 

Anthony  smoked  a  cigarette  in  acute  misery; 
already  his  neck  felt  scraped  raw;  a  button  flew 
jubilantly  from  his  waistcoat;  and  his  improvised 
studs  failed  in  their  appointed  task.  "I'm  having 

[61] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

the  hell  of  a  good  time,  I  am,"  he  told  Ellie 
satirically. 

They  turned  between  stone  pillars  supporting 
an  iron  lantern,  and  advanced  over  a  winding 
driveway  to  Hydrangea  House,  where  they  waited 
for  a  motor  to  move  from  the  brilliantly-illu 
minated  portal.  A  servant  directed  Anthony  to 
the  second  floor,  where  he  found  a  bedchamber  tem 
porarily  in  service  as  a  coat  room,  occupied  by  a 
number  of  men.  Most  of  them  he  knew,  and 
nodded  shortly  in  return  to  their  careless  saluta 
tions.  They  belonged  to  a  variety  that  he  at  once 
envied  and  disdained:  here  they  were  thoroughly 
at  ease,  their  ties  irreproachable,  their  shirts  with 
out  a  crease.  Drawing  on  snowy  gloves  they  dis 
cussed  women  and  society  with  fluency,  gusto, 
emanating  an  atmosphere  of  cocktails. 

Anthony  produced  his  gloves  in  a  crumpled  wad 
from  the  tail  of  his  coat  and  fought  his  way  into 
them.  He  felt  rather  than  saw  the  restrained 
amusement  of  his  fellows.  They  spoke  to  him 
gravely,  punctiliously  offered  cigarettes;  yet,  in  a 
vague  but  unmistakable  manner,  he  was  made  to 

[62] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

feel  that  he  was  outside  their  interests,  ignorant 
of  their  shibboleth.  In  the  matter  of  collars  alone 
he  was  as  a  Patagonian  to  them.  He  recalled 
with  regret  the  easy  familiarity,  the  comfort,  of 
Doctor  Allhop's  drugstore. 

Then,  throwing  aside  cigarettes,  patting  waist 
coats  into  position,  they  streamed  down  to  the 
music.  The  others  found  partners  immediately, 
and  swung  into  a  onestep,  but  Anthony  stood 
irresolutely  in  the  doorway.  The  girls  discon 
certed  him  with  their  formal  smiles,  their  bright, 
ready  chatter.  But  Ellie  rescued  him,  drawing 
him  into  the  dance  after  which  he  sought  the  porch 
that,  looped  with  rose  vines,  crossed  the  face  of  the 
long,  low  house.  There,  with  his  back  against  a 
pillar,  he  found  a  cool  spot  upon  the  tiles  and 
such  comfort  as  he  could  command. 

Long  windows  opening  from  the  ballroom  were 
now  segments  of  whirling  color,  now  filled  with 
gay  streams,  ebbing  and  returning.  Fragmen 
tary  conversation,  glowing  cigarettes,  surrounded 
him.  Behind  the  pillar  at  his  back  a  girl  said, 
softly,  "Please  don't." 

[63] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

Then  he  saw  Ellie,  obviously  searching  for  him, 
and  he  rose.  At  her  side  was  a  slim  figure  with  a 
cloud  of  light  hair.  "There  he  is!"  Ellie  ex 
claimed;  "Eliza  .  .  .  this  is  my  brother,  An 
thony." 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  opened  widely,  and  that 
her  hair  was  a  peculiar,  bright  shade.  A  sort  of 
ginger,  he  thought.  "I  made  Ellie  find  you,"  she 
told  him.  "You  know,  you  must  ask  me  to 
dance;  I  won't  be  ignored  at  my  own  party." 

He  awkwardly  muttered  some  conventional 
period,  annoyed  at  having  been  found,  intensely 
uncomfortable.  In  a  minute  more  he  found  him 
self  dancing,  conscious  of  his  limp  tie,  his  crum 
pled  and  gaping  shirt.  He  swung  his  partner 
heavily  across  the  room,  colliding  with  a  couple 
which  he  shouldered  angrily  aside.  The  anima 
tion  swiftly  died  from  Eliza  Dreen's  countenance; 
she  grew  indifferent,  then  cold.  As  the  music 
ceased,  she  escaped  with  a  palpable  sigh  of  relief. 
He  was  savagely  mopping  his  heated  face  on  the 
porch  when,  at  his  elbow,  a  clear  voice  captured 
his  attention.  "A  dreadful  person,"  it  said, 

[64] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

".  .  .  like  dancing  with  a  locomotive.  ...  A 
regular  Apache." 

He  turned  and  saw  that  it  was  Eliza  Dreen, 
gathering  from  her  swift  concern  both  that  he  had 
been  the  subject  of  her  discourse,  and  that  she  was 
aware  that  he  had  overheard  it.  Back  at  his  post 
at  the  pillar  he  promised  himself  grimly  that 
never  again  would  he  be  found  in  such  specified 
company.  He  stripped  his  gloves  from  his  wet 
palms,  and  flung  them  far  across  the  lawn,  then 
recklessly  eased  his  collar.  There  was  a  sudden 
whisper  of  skirts  behind  him,  then  Eliza  seated 
herself  on  the  porch's  edge  at  his  side. 


[65] 


IX 

44 T   AM  a  loathsome  person  at  times,"  she  in- 

J_  formed  him;  "and  to-night  I  was  rather 
worse  than  usual." 

"I  do  dance  like  a — locomotive,"  involuntarily. 

"It  doesn't  matter  how  you  dance,"  she  pro 
ceeded,  "and  you  mustn't  repeat  it,  it  isn't  gener 
ous."  Suddenly  she  laughed  uncontrollably. 
"You  looked  so  miserable  .  .  .  your  collar,"  it 
was  lost  in  a  bubbling,  silvery  peal.  "Forgive 
me,"  she  gasped. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  assured  her.  All  at  once 
he  didn't;  the  sting  had  vanished  from  his  pride; 
he  smiled.  He  saw  that  she  wore  a  honey-colored 
dress,  with  a  strand  of  pearls  about  her  slim 
throat,  and  that  her  feet,  in  satin,  were  even 
smaller  than  Ellie's.  Her  hair  resembled  more 
a  crown  of  light  than  the  customary  adornment. 
"I  didn't  want  to  come,"  he  confided:  "I  hate, 
well — going  out,  dancing." 

[66] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"It  doesn't  suit  you,"  she  admitted  frankly. 
"You  are  so  splendidly  bronzed  and  strong;  you 
need,"  she  paused,  "lots  of  room." 

For  this  Anthony  had  no  adequate  reply.  "I 
have  this  with  some  one,"  she  declared  as  the 
music  began  again,  "but  I  hope  they  don't  find 
me;  I  hate  it  for  the  moment  .  .  .  I'll  show  you 
a  place;  it's  very  wicked  of  me."  She  rose  and, 
waving  him  to  follow,  slipped  over  the  grass. 
Beyond  the  house  she  stopped  in  the  shadowy  vista 
of  a  pergola;  vines  shut  out  the  stars,  walled  them 
in  a  virid,  still  gloom.  She  sank  on  a  low  stone 
bench,  and  he  dropped  on  the  grass  at  her  feet.  A 
mantle  of  fine  romance  descended  upon  his  shoul 
ders,  of  subtle  adventure,  prodigious  daring. 
Immaculate  men,  pearl-studded,  were  searching 
for  her,  and  she  had  hidden  herself  from  them 
with  him.  A  new  and  pleasant  sense  of  impor 
tance  warmed  him,  flattered  his  self-esteem.  He 
felt  strangely  at  ease,  and  sat  in  silent  content 
ment.  The  faint  sound  of  violins,  a  burst  of  dis 
tant  laughter,  floated  to  him. 

"It  seems  as  if  the  world  were  rushing  on,  out 
[67] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

there,  without  us,"  Eliza  finally  broke  the  silence, 
"as  if  they  were  keeping  a  furious  pace,  while  we 
sat  in  some  everlasting,  quiet  wood,  like  Fontaine- 
bleau.  Don't  you  adore  nature?" 

"I  knock  about  a  lot  outside,"  he  admitted  cau 
tiously,  "often  I  stay  out  all  night,  by  the  Wingo- 
hocking  Creek.  There's  a  sort  of  cave  where 
you  can  hear  the  falls,  and  the  owls  hunting  about. 
I  cook  things  in  clay — fish,  chickens,"  he  paused 
abruptly  at  the  latter  item,  recalling  the  question 
able  source  of  his  supply.  "In  winter  I  shoot 
rabbits  with  Bert  Woods,  he's  a  barber,  and  Doc 
tor  Allhop,  you  know — the  druggist." 

"I  am  sure  that  your  friends  are  very  nice,"  she 
promptly  assured  him. 

"Bert's  crazy  about  girls,"  he  remarked,  half 
contemptuously. 

"And  you  .  .  .  don't  care  for  them?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them,"  he  ad 
mitted  with  an  abrupt,  involuntary  honesty. 

"But  there  must  have  been — there  must  be — 
one,"  she  persisted. 

She  leaned  forward,  and  he  met  her  gaze  with 
[68] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

unwavering  candor.     "Not  that  many,"  he  re 
turned. 

"It  would  be  wonderful  to  care  for  just  one 
person,  always"  she  continued  intently.  "I  had 
a  dream  when  I  was  quite  young  ...  I  dreamed 
that  a  marvellous  happiness  would  follow  a  con 
stancy  like  that.  Father  rather  laughs  at  me,  and 
quotes  Shakespeare — the  'one  foot  on  land  and 
one  on  shore'  thing.  But  there  were  Petrarch 
and  Laura  and  Dante — " 

Anthony  gravely  considered  this  new  idea  in 
relation  to  his  own,  hitherto  lamented,  lack  of  ex 
perience.  It  dawned  upon  him  that  the  idea  of 
manly  success  he  had  cherished  would  appear  dis 
tasteful  to  Eliza  Dreen.  She  had  indirectly  ex 
tolled  the  very  thing  of  which  he  had  been  secretly 
ashamed.  He  thought,  in  conjunction  with  her, 
of  the  familiar  group  at  the  drugstore,  and  in  this 
light  the  latter  retreat  suffered  a  disconcerting 
change:  Thomas  Meredith  appeared  sly,  trivial 
and  unhealthy;  Williams  an  empty  braggard; 
Craik  ineffectual,  untidy.  He  surveyed  himself 
without  enthusiasm. 

[69] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"You  are  different  from  any  one  I  ever  knew," 
he  told  her. 

"Oh,  there  are  millions  of  me/'  she  returned; 
"but  you  are  different.  I  didn't  like  you  for  a 
sou  at  first;  but  there  is  something  about  you  like 
— like  a  spring  of  very  clear  water.  That's 
idiotic,  but  it's  what  I  mean.  There  is  an  early 
morning  feeling  about  you.  I  am  very  sensitive 
to  people,"  she  informed  him,  "some  make  me  un 
comfortable  directly  they  come  into  the  room. 
There  was  a  cure  at  Etretat  I  perfectly  detested, 
and  he  turned  out  to  be  an  awful  person." 

Her  name  was  called  unmistakably  across  the 
lawn,  and  she  rose.  "They're  all  furious,"  she 
announced,  without  moving  farther.  Her  face 
was  pale,  immaterial,  in  the  gloom ;  her  wide  eyes 
dark,  disturbing.  A  minute  gold  watch  on  her 
wrist  ticked  faintly,  and — it  seemed  to  Anthony — 
in  furious  haste.  Something  within  him,  strug 
gling  inarticulately  for  expression,  hurt;  an  op 
pressive  emotion  beat  upon  his  heart.  He  uttered 
a  period  about  seeing  her  again. 

"Some  day  you  may  show  me  the  place  where 
[70] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

the  fall  sounds  and  the  owls  hunt.  No,  don't 
come  with  me."  She  turned  and  fled. 

An  unreasonable  conviction  seized  Anthony 
that  a  momentous  occasion  had  overtaken  him; 
he  was  unable  to  distinguish  its  features,  discover 
it  grave  or  gay;  but,  wrapped  in  the  impenetrable 
veil  of  the  future,  it  enveloped  and  permeated  him, 
swept  in  the  circle  of  his  blood's  circulation,  vi 
brated  in  the  cords  of  his  sensitive  ganglia.  He 
returned  slowly  to  the  house:  the  brilliantly-lit, 
dancing  figures  seemed  the  mere  figments  of  a 
febrile  dream,  but  the  music  apparently  throbbed 
within  his  brain. 

Ellie's  cool  voice  recreated  his  actual  sphere. 
He  found  their  hack,  the  driver  slumbering 
doubled  on  the  seat.  The  latter  rose  stiffly,  and 
stirred  his  drowsing  animal  into  a  stumbling  walk. 
Beyond  the  illuminated  entrance  to  Hydrangea 
House  the  countryside  lay  profoundly  dim  to 
where  the  horizon  flared  with  the  pale  reflection 
of  distant  lightning. 

"Eliza's  a  sweet,"  Ellie  pronounced. 

Anthony  brooded  without  reply  upon  his  opin- 
[71] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

ion.  The  iron-like  collar  had  capitulated,  and 
rested  limply  upon  his  limp  shirt;  at  the  sacri 
fice  of  a  second  button  his  waistcoat  offered  com 
plete  comfort.  "I  am  going  to  get  a  new  dress 
suit,"  he  announced  decisively.  Ellie  smiled 
with  sisterly  malice.  "Eliza  is  a  sweet,"  she  re 
iterated. 

"You  go  to  thunder ! "  he  retorted.  But,  "She's 
wonderful,"  he  admitted,  and — out  of  his  conclu 
sive  experience, — "there  is  not  another  girl  like 
her  in  all  the  world." 

"I'll  agitate  for  the  new  suit,"  Ellie  promised. 


[72] 


X 

THE  following  morning  he  reorganized  his 
neckties,  left  a  pair  of  white  flannels  to  be 
pressed  at  the  tailor's ;  then,  his  shoulders  swathed 
in  a  crisp,  sprigged  muslin,  sat  circumspectly 
under  the  brisk  shears  of  Bert  Woods.  Bert 
hovered  above  him,  and  commented  on  yesterday's 
fiasco.  "It  comes  to  the  best  of  'em,"  Bert  as 
sured  him:  "  'member  how  Ollie  Stitcher  fell  down 
in  the  world's  series  at  Chicago."  He  recited,  for 
Anthony's  comfort,  the  names  of  eminent  pitchers 
who  had  "fell  down"  when  every  necessity  de 
manded  that  they  should  have  remained  splen 
didly  erect. 

His  defeat  still  rankled  in  Anthony's  mind,  but 
the  bitterness  had  vanished,  the  hurt  salved  by 
that  other  memory  of  the  impulsive  charm  of 
Eliza  Dreen.  He  recalled  all  that  she  had  said 
to  him;  her  words,  thoughtfully  considered,  were 
just  those  employed  by  humdrum  individuals  in 

[73] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

their  commonplace  discourses;  but,  spoken  by  her, 
they  were  athrill  with  a  special,  a  significant  im 
portance  and  beauty.  It  was  inevitable  that  she 
should  have  dreamed  things  immaculate,  rare; 
things  like  .  .  .  white  flowers. 

"Shampoo?"  Bert  inquired  absent-mindedly. 

"And  singed,  and  curled,  and  sprinkled  with 
violets,"  Anthony  promptly  returned.  With  a 
flourish,  Bert  swept  aside  the  muslin  folds. 

Then,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  neglected  duty,  he 
crossed  the  town  to  a  quiet  corner,  occupied  by  a 
small  dwelling  built  of  smooth,  green  stone, 
crowned  with  a  fantastic  and  dingy  froth  of  wood. 
A  shallow,  untended  garden  was  choked  with 
weeds  and  bushes,  sprawling  upward  against 
closely-shuttered  windows.  He  realized  with  a 
stir  of  mild  self-reproach  that  he  had  not  been  to 
see  Mrs.  Bosbyshell  for  two  weeks.  He  was 
aware  that  his  visits  to  that  solitary  and  eccentric 
old  woman  formed  her  sole  contact  with  a  world 
she  regarded  with  an  increasing,  unbalanced  sus 
picion. 

A  minute  or  more  after  his  knock — the  bell 
[74] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

handle  was  missing — a  shutter  shifted  a  fraction, 
upon  which  he  was  admitted  to  a  narrow,  dark 
hall,  and  the  door  bolted  sharply  behind  him. 
A  short,  stout  woman,  in  a  formless  wrap  of  gro 
tesquely  gorgeous  design,  faced  him  with  a  quiver 
ing,  apprehensive  countenance  and  prodigiously 
bright  eyes.  Her  scant,  yellowish-white  hair  was 
gathered  aloft  in  a  knot  that  slipped  oddly  from 
side  to  side;  and,  as  she  walked,  shabby  Juliet 
slippers  loudly  slapped  the  bare  floor. 

"Do  you  want  some  wood  brought  in?"  An 
thony  inquired;  "and  how  does  the  washer  I  put 
on  the  hot  water  spigot  work?" 

"A  little  wood,  if  you  please;  and  the  spigot's 
good  as  new."  She  sat  on  a  chair,  lifting  a  har 
assed  gaze  to  his  serious  solicitation.  "I've  had 
a  dreadful  time  since  you  were  here  last — an  evil- 
ish-appearing  man  knocked  and  knocked,  at  one 
door  and  again  at  another."  Her  voice  sank  to  a 
shrill  whisper.  "He  was  after  the  money."  She 
nodded  so  vigorously  that  the  knot  fell  in  a  strag 
gling  wisp  across  her  eyes.  "Cousin  Alonzo  sent 
him." 

[75] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"Your  cousin  Alonzo  has  been  dead  ten  years," 
he  interposed  patiently,  going  once  more  over  that 
familiar  ground.  "Probably  it  was  a  man  want 
ing  to  sell  gas  stoves." 

"You  don't  know  Alonzo,"  she  persisted,  un 
convinced;  "I  should  have  to  see  his  corp'.  He 
knows  I've  a  comfortable  sum  put  by,  and's  hard 
after  it  for  his  wenching  and  such  practices :  small 
good,  or  bad,  he'll  get  of  it  when  my  will  comes  to 
be  read." 

He  passed  through  the  hall  to  the  kitchen,  and, 
unchaining  the  back  door,  brought  a  basket  of  cut 
wood  from  a  shed,  and  piled  it  beside  ,the  stove, 
Mrs.  Bosbyshell  inspected  with  a  critical  eye  the 
fastening  of  the  door.  There  was  a  swollen  win 
dow  sash  to  release  above,  a  mattress  to  turn,  then 
he  was  waved  ceremoniously  into  a  formal,  dark 
ened  chamber.  The  musty  spice  of  rose  pot 
pourri  lingered  in  the  flat  air;  old  mahogany — 
rush  bottomed  chairs,  a  flute-legged  table,  a  high 
boy  and  Dutch  clock — glimmered  about  the  walls, 
A  marble-topped  stand  bore  orderly  volumes  in 
maroon  and  primrose  morocco,  the  top  one  en- 

[76] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

titled,  "The  Gentlewoman's  Garland.  A  Gift 
Book." 

From  a  triangular  cupboard,  she  produced  a 
decanter  with  a  carved  design  of  bees  and  cobalt 
clovej-,  and  a  plate  of  crumbling  currant  cake. 
"A  sup  of  dandelion  cordial,"  she  announced,  "a 
bite  of  sweet.  Growing  boys  must  be  fed." 

She  sat,  and  with  patent  satisfaction  watched 
Anthony  consume  the  ropy  sirup  and  cake. 

"I  met  a  girl  last  night,"  he  told  her  intimately; 
"she  had  hair  like — like  a  Roman  candle." 

"Did  you  burn  your  heart  up  in  it?" 

"She  told  me  that  I  was  like  the  early  morn 
ing,"  he  confided  with  a  rush. 

Mrs.  Bosbyshell  nodded  her  approval.  "An 
understandable  remark;  exactly  what  I  should 
have  said  fifty  years  ago;  I  didn't  know  the  girls 
of  to-day  had  it  in  'em.  You've  got  a  good  heart, 
Anthony,"  she  enunciated.  Anthony  shuffled  his 
feet.  "A  good  heart  is  a  rare  thing  to  find  in  the 
young.  But  I  misdoubt,  in  a  world  of  mammon, 
you'll  pay  for  it  dear;  I'm  afraid  you  will  never  be 
successful,  so  called.  It's  selling  men  that  that 

[77] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

success  is  got,  and  buying  women,  and  it's  never 
in  you  to  do  those.  You  wouldn't  wish  an  old 
woman  gone  for  the  sum  she'd  laid  aside." 

Her  fancies  had  been  wilder  than  usual,  he  con 
cluded,  as  the  bolt  of  the  door  at  his  back  slid 
home.  Alonzo  and  her  money — one  he  con 
sidered  as  actual,  as  imminent,  as  the  other — oc 
cupied  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else  her  dimming 
brain.  He  had  hoped  to  converse  with  her  more 
fully  on  the  inexhaustible  subject  of  Eliza  Dreeh, 
but  her  vagaries  had  interrupted  him  continuously. 
He  decided  that  she  was  an  antiquated  bore,  but 
made  a  mental  note  to  return  before  the  store  of 
wood  was  consumed. 


[78] 


XI 

IN  the  evening  he  stopped  from  force  of  habit 
at  Doctor  Allhop's  drugstore:  the  familiar 
group  was  assembled  behind  the  screen  at  the 
rear,  the  conversation  flowed  in  the  old  channels. 
Anthony  lounged  and  listened,  but  his  attention 
continually  wandered — he  heard  other,  more 
musical  tones ;  his  vision  was  filled  with  a  candid 
face  and  widely-opened  eyes  in  the  green  gloom 
of  a  pergola.  He  passed  out  of  the  bevy  at  the 
soda-water  fountain  to  the  street.  - 

In  the  artificial  day  of  the  electric  lights  the 
early  summer  foliage  was  as  virulently  green  as 
the  toy  trees  of  a  miniature  ark;  the  sky  was  a 
breathless  vault  filled  with  blue  mists  that  veiled 
the  stars ;  under  the  locust  trees  the  blooms  were 
spilled  odorously,  whitely,  on  the  pavement.  He 
walked  aimlessly  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Across  the  dim  valley,  against  the  hills  merged 

[79] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

into  the  night  and  sky,  he  could  see  the  low  glim 
mering  lights  of  Hydrangea  House.  It  would  be 
pleasant,  he  thought,  to  be  closer  to  that  abode 
of  delight;  and,  crossing  the  road,  he  vaulted  a 
fence,  and  descended  through  a  tangle  of  aromatic 
grass  to  the  brook  that  threaded  the  meadow  be 
low.  A  star  swam  imaged  on  the  black,  wrinkled 
surface  of  the  water:  it  suggested  vague,  happy 
images — Eliza  was  the  star,  and  he  was  the  brook, 
holding  her  mirrored  in  his  dreams. 

He  passed  cows,  blowing  softly  into  the  sod;  a 
flock  of  sheep  broke  before  him  like  an  argent 
cloud  on  the  heaven  of  the  fields;  and,  finally,  he 
reached  the  boundary  of  James  Dreen's  acres. 
He  forced  his  way  through  the  budding  hedge 
from  which  the  place  had  its  name,  and,  in  a  cup 
of  the  lawn  like  a  pool  of  brimming,  fragrant 
shadows,  sat  watching  the  lights  of  the  house. 

Indistinct  shapes  passed  the  windows,  each — 
since  it  might  be  she — carrying  to  him  a  thrill; 
indistinguishable  voices  reached  him,  the  vague 
tones — they  might  be  hers — chiming  like  bells  on 
his  straining  senses.  The  world,  life,  was  so 

[80] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

beautiful  that  it  brought  an  obstruction  into  his 
throat;  he  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and,  to  his  surprise,  found  that  it  was  wet. 

Presently,  the  lights  sank  on  the  lower  floor  and 
reappeared  above.  The  blinding  whiteness  of  the 
thought  of  Eliza  sleeping  seared  his  brain  like  a 
flare  of  powder.  When  the  house  retreated  unre 
lieved  into  the  gloom  he  rose  and  slowly  retraced 
his  steps.  He  lit  a  cigarette;  the  match  burned 
with  a  steady  flame  in  the  stillness ;  but,  in  an  un 
named  impulse,  he  flung  both  aside,  and  filled  his 
lungs  with  the  Elysian  June  air. 


[81] 


XII 

THE  next  afternoon,  returning  from  the  un 
loading  of  a  grain  car  at  his  father's  ware 
house,  he  discovered  a  smartly  saddled  horse  fast 
to  the  marble  hitching  post  before  his  door.  It 
hardly  required  the  glance  at  the  silver  "D"  on 
the  headstall  to  inform  him  who  was  within.  He 
found  Ellie  and  Eliza  Dreen  in  the  corner  by  the 
Canton  tea  service,  consuming  Pekoe  and  ginger 
bread  dicky  birds.  Eliza  nodded  and  smiled  over 
her  shoulder,  and  resumed  an  animated  projec 
tion  of  an  excursion  in  canoes  on  the  Wingohock- 
ing.  She  wore  a  severe  coat  over  white  breeches 
and  immaculate  boots  with  diminutive  gold  spurs. 
Beneath  a  flat  straw  hat  her  hair  was  confined  by 
a  broad  ribband  low  upon  her  neck,  while  a  pink 
stock  was  held  in  position  by  a  gaily-checked 
waistcoat. 

Anthony  dropped  with  affected  ease  on  the  sofa, 
and  covertly  studied  the  delicate  line  of  her  cheek. 

[82] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

He  now  recalled  indignantly  that  Mrs.  Dreen  had 
said  Eliza  was  not  good-looking;  while  her  refer 
ence  to  Eliza's  veracity  had  been  entirely  super 
fluous.  She  turned  toward  him,  finally,  with  an 
engaging  query.  He  saw  across  her  nose  a  faint 
trail  of  the  most  delightful  freckles  in  the  world ; 
her  eyes  were  blue,  that  amazing  blue  of  bachelor's 
buttons ;  while  her  mouth — he  would  have  sworn 
this  the  first  time  such  simile  had  been  applied  to 
that  feature — was  like  a  roseleaf.  He  made  a 
totally  inadequate  reply,  while  Ellie  rose,  and, 
plate  in  hand,  vanished  in  quest  of  a  fresh  supply 
of  gingerbread.  A  sort  of  desperate,  blundering 
courage  took  possession  of  him : 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  lot  about  you,"  he 
told  her.  "Last  night  I  sat  on  your  grass  and 
wondered  which  was  your  window." 

"What  a  silly! — we  were  on  the  porch  all  eve 
ning." 

"It  wasn't  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  so  much," 
he  tried  to  explain  his  instinctive  impulses,  de 
sires,  "as  just  to  be  near  you." 

"I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "yes,  I  know — that 
[83] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

is  the  prettiest  thing  that  has  ever  been  said  to  me. 
I  thought  about  you  ...  a  little;  really  more 
about  myself.  I  haven't  recognized  myself  at  all 
very  lately;  I  suppose  it's  being  home  again." 
She  gazed  at  him  candidly,  critically.  "You 
have  very  unusual  eyes,"  she  remarked  unex 
pectedly;  "they  are  so  transparent.  Haven't  you 
anything  to  hide?" 

"Some  chicken  feathers,"  he  affirmed.  He 
grew  serious  immediately.  "Your  eyes  are  like — 
like — "  the  name  of  the  flower  so  lately  suggested 
by  her  lucid  vision  had  flown  his  mind.  Sus 
penders,  bachelor's  suspenders,  exclusively  oc 
curred  to  him.  "An  awfully  blue  flower,"  he 
temporized. 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  bent  over  the  tea 
roses,  freshly  placed  in  the  jar  by  the  door.  "I 
must  go,"  she  said,  her  back  to  him.  "I  have 
been  here  a  terrific  length  of  time  ...  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  come  in.  ...  Wasn't  it  shocking 
of  me?" 

The  knowledge  that  she  had  considered  the  pos 
sibility  of  seeing  him  filled  Anthony  with  incredu- 

[84] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

lous  joy.  Then,  sitting  silently,  gazing  fixedly 
at  the  floor,  he  became  acutely  miserable  at  the 
sudden  conviction  of  his  worthlessness ;  shame 
prevented  him  from  looking  at  her — surely  she 
must  see  that  he,  Anthony  Ball,  the  unsuccessful, 
without  prospect,  the  truant  from  life,  was  an  im 
proper  object  for  her  interest.  She  was  so  abso 
lutely  desirable,  so  fine. 

He  recalled  what  she  had  said  on  the  night  of 
the  dance  .  .  .  about  constancy :  if  the  single  de 
votion  of  his  life  would  mean  anything  to  her,  he 
continued  grandiloquently,  it  was  hers.  He  was 
considering  the  possibility  of  telling  her  this  when 
Ellie  unnecessarily  returned  with  a  replenished 
plate.  He  was  grateful  when  neither  included 
him  in  the  remarks  which  followed.  And  he 
speedily  left  the  room,  proceeding  to  the  pavement, 
where  he  stood  with  his  palm  resting  on  the  flank 
of  her  horse. 

In  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  the  street  was  a 
way  of  gold ;  when  Eliza  appeared  she  was  ringed 
in  the  molten  glory.  She  placed  her  heel  in  his 
hand,  and  sprang  lightly  into  the  saddle;  the 

[85] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

horse  shied,  there  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  she 
cantered  away.  Ellie  stood  on  the  steps,  graceful, 
unconcerned;  he  watched  until  the  upright, 
mounted  figure  was  out  of  sight,  then  silently 
passed  his  sister  into  the  house. 


[86] 


XIII 

HE  was  in  his  room  when  the  familiar  for 
mula  of  a  whistled  signal  sounded  from 
the  darkened  street.  It  was  Alfred  Craik;  he 
recognized  the  halt  ending  of  the  bar;  he  whis 
tled  like  an  old  hinge,  Anthony  thought  impa 
tiently.  He  proceeded  to  the  lawn,  and  called 
shortly  over  the  crumbling  iron  fence.  Alfred 
Craik  was  agog  with  weighty  information. 

"The  circus  is  coming  in  at  three-thirty  to-mor 
row  morning,"  he  announced.  "The  station 
agent  told  me  ...  old  Giller's  lot  on  Newberry 
Street.  'Member  last  year  we  had  breakfast  with 
the  elephant  trainer !" 

Circuses,  Anthony  told  him  with  large  uncon 
cern,  were  for  infantile  minds;  they  might  put 
their  circus  on  top  the  Court  House  without  win 
ning  the  slightest  notice  from  him;  the  horses 
were  no  better  than  old  cows;  and  as  for  clowns, 
the  ringmaster,  they  made  him  specifically  ill. 

[87] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

The  greater  part  of  this  diatribe  Alfred  chose 
to  ignore;  he  impatiently  besought  Anthony  to 
"come  off";  and  warned  him  strenuously  against 
a  tardy  waking.  Once  more  in  his  room  Anthony 
smiled  at  the  other's  pretty  enthusiasm.  Yet  at 
half  past  three  he  woke  sharply,  starting  up  on 
his  elbow  as  though  he  had  been  called.  He 
heard  in  the  distance  the  faint,  shrill  whistle  of  the 
locomotive  drawing  the  circus  into  Ellerton.  He 
sank  back,  but,  with  the  face  of  Eliza  radiant 
against  the  gloom,  slumber  deserted  him.  It  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  might,  after  all,  rise  and 
witness  from  his  rarer  elevation  the  preparations 
that  had  once  aroused  in  him  such  immature  joy. 

The  circus  ground  was  an  apparently  inexplica 
ble  tangle  of  canvas  and  lumber,  threaded  with 
men  like  unsubstantial,  hurrying  shadows.  At 
the  fence  corner  loomed  the  vague  bulks  of  ele 
phants,  heaving  ceaselessly,  stamping  with  the  dull 
clank  of  chains;  a  line  of  cages  beyond  was  still 
indistinguishable.  The  confusion  seemed  hope 
less — the  hasty,  desperate  labor  at  the  edges  of 
the  billowing,  grey  canvas,  the  virulent  curses  as 

[88] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

feet  slipped  in  the  torn  sod,  the  shrill,  passionate 
commands,  resembled  an  inferno  of  ineffectual 
toil  for  shades  condemned  to  never  ending  labor. 
The  tent  rose  slowly,  hardly  detached  from  the 
thin  morning  gloom,  and  the  hammering  of  stakes 
uprose  with  a  sharp,  furious  energy.  A  wagon- 
load  of  hay  creaked  into  the  lot;  a  horse  whinnied; 
and,  from  a  cage,  sounded  a  long-drawn,  de 
spondent  howl.  The  fusillade  of  hammering,  the 
ringing  of  boards,  increased.  A  harried  and  in 
domitable  voice  maintained  an  insistent  grip  upon 
the  clamor.  It  grew  lighter;  pinched  features 
emerged,  haggard  individuals  in  haphazard  garbs 
stood  with  the  sweat  glistening  on  their  blue  brows. 
The  elephants,  tearing  apart  a  bale  of  hay,  ap 
peared  ancient  beyond  all  computation,  infinitely 
patient,  infinitely  weary.  Out  of  the  sudden 
crimson  that  stained  the  east  a  ray  of  sunlight 
flashed  like  a  pointed,  accusing  finger  and  rested 
on  the  garish,  gilded  bars  and  tarnished  fringe  of 
the  cages;  it  hit  the  worn  and  dingy  fur  of  an 
aged,  gaunt  lioness,  the  dim  and  bleared  topaz  of 
her  eyes  blinking  against  the  flood  of  day;  it  fell 

[89] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

upon  a  pair  of  lean  wolves  trotting  in  a  quick, 
constricted  circle;  upon  a  ragged  hyena  with  a 
dry  and  uplifted  snout ;  upon  a  lithe  leopard  with 
a  glittering,  green  gaze  of  unquenchable  hate. 

"Take  a  hold,"  a  husky  voice  had  urged  An 
thony;  "help  the  circus  men  put  up  the  big  tent, 
and  get  a  free  pass."  In  the  contagion  of  work 
he  had  pulled  upon  the  hard  canvas,  the  stiff  ropes 
that  cut  like  scored  iron,  and  held  stakes  to  be 
driven  into  the  slushy  sod.  Thin  shoulders 
strained  against  his  own,  gasping  and  maculate 
breaths  assailed  him.  The  flesh  was  torn  from  a 
man's  palm;  another,  hit  a  glancing  blow  on  the 
head  with  a  mall,  wandered  about  dazed,  falling 
over  ropes,  blundering  in  paths  of  hasty  bru 
tality. 

Anthony  rested  with  aching  muscles  in  the 
orient  flood  of  the  sun.  The  tent  was  erected, 
flags  fluttered  gaily  aloft,  the  posters  of  the  side 
show  flung  their  startling  colors  abroad.  A  musi 
cal  call  floated  upward  from  an  invisible  bugle: 
an  air  of  gala,  of  triumphant  and  irresponsible 
pleasure,  permeated  the  scene.  "She's  all  right, 

[90] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

isn't  she?"  Alfred  Craik  demanded  at  his  side. 
He  nodded  silently,  and  turned  toward  home,  his 
pulses  leaping  with  joy  at  the  dewy  freshness  of 
the  morning,  the  knowledge  of  Eliza — a  spark 
ling,  singing  optimism  drawn  from  the  unstained 
fountain  of  his  youth. 


[91] 


XIV 

LATER,  engaged  in  repairing  a  shelf — at  a 
super-union  scale — for  his  mother,  he  heard 
the  steam  shriek  of  a  calliope  announcing  the 
parade.  From  a  window  he  could  see  the 
thronged  sidewalks,  the  crudely  fantastic  figures 
of  the  clowns,  enveloped  in  a  dusty  haze  of  light. 
His  thoughts  withdrew  from  that  vapid  spectacle 
to  the  rapt  contemplation  of  Eliza  Dreen.  He 
pictured  Eliza  and  himself  in  the  dramatic  situa 
tions  which  diversified  the  moving  pictures  of  his 
nightly  attendance :  he  rescued  her  from  the  wiles 
of  Mexicans,  counts,  weirdly- wicked  Hindoos; 
now  he  dragged  her  from  the  chimney  into  which 
she  had  been  bricked  by  a  Brotherhood  of  Blood; 
now,  driving  a  monoplane  above  the  hurtling 
express  that  bore  her  toward  a  fiendish  revenge, 
he  descended  to  halt  the  train  at  a  river's  brink 
while  the  bridge  sank  dynamited  into  the  swirling 

[92] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

stream — "Mercy,  Tony!"  his  mother's  practical 
voice  rent  the  resplendent  vision;  "don't  crush 
your  greatuncle's  epaulets. " 

After  the  midday  meal  a  minute  review  of  the 
places  where  Eliza  might  be  found  discovered  the 
Ellerton  Country  Club  to  hold  the  greatest  pos 
sibility.  Anthony  was  a  virtual  stranger  to  that 
focus  of  the  newer  Ellerton;  except  for  the  older 
enthusiasts  who  played  golf  every  afternoon  that 
it  was  humanly  possible  to  remain  outside  it  was 
the  stronghold  of  the  species  Anthony  had  en 
countered  in  the  dressing  room  at  the  Dreens' 
dance.  The  space  back  of  the  drugstore,  where 
he  had  lounged,  held  unbroken  the  elder  tradition 
of  Ellerton.  There  he  had  cultivated  a  mild  con 
tempt  for  the  studied  urbanity,  the  formally  or 
ganized  converse  and  games,  of  the  club.  But  as 
a  setting  for  Eliza  it  gained  a  compelling  attrac 
tion.  And,  in  his  freshly-ironed  flannels,  he 
ordered  his  steps  toward  that  goal.  The  Club 
House  overhung  the  rolling  green  of  the  golf 
links;  from  a  place  of  vantage  he  saw  that  Eliza 
was  not  on  the  veranda;  at  one  end  a  group  of 

[93] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

young  men  were  drinking — tea!  Beyond  his 
father  and  three  companions,  followed  by  caddies, 
rose  above  a  hill.  His  father  grasped  a  club  and 
bent  over  the  turf;  the  club  described  a  short  arc, 
the  ball  flashed  whitely  through  the  air,  and  the 
group  trotted  eagerly  forward,  mingling  explana 
tion,  chagrin  and  prediction  with  heated  and  sim 
ple  sums  in  arithmetic. 

Then  he  saw  Eliza  ...  she  was  on  the  tennis 
court,  playing  with  a  vigorous  girl  with  a  bare 
and  stalwart  forearm.  He  divined  that  the  lat 
ter  was  winning,  and  conceived  a  sweeping  dis 
taste  for  her  flushed,  perspiring  countenance  and 
thickset  ankles.  "How  beautiful  you  look!" 
Eliza  called,  as  he  propped  himself  against  the 
wire  netting  that,  overrun  with  honeysuckle,  en 
closed  the  courts.  He  watched  her  fleeting  form, 
heard  her  breathless  exclamations,  with  warm  stirs 
of  delight.  When  her  opponent  played  the  ball 
beyond  her  reach  his  dislike  for  that  efficiency  be 
came  an  obsession.  The  flying  shadows  length 
ened  on  the  rolled,  yellow  surface  of  the  court; 
the  group  on  the  porch  emptied  their  teacups  and 

[94] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

moved  away;  and  the  final  set  of  games  won  by 
the  "beefsteak." 

Eliza  slipped  into  a  formless  chocolate-colored 
coat:  racket  in  hand  she  smiled  at  him.  "I'm 
rather  done,"  she  admitted.  She  hesitated,  then: 
"I  wonder — are  you  doing  anything? — if  you 
would  drive  me  home?"  He  assured  her  upon 
that  point  with  a  celerity  that  brought  a  momen 
tary  confusion  upon  them.  "The  Meadowbrook 
and  roan  at  the  sheds,"  she  directed.  In  the  bas- 
ketlike  cart  they  swung  easily  over  the  road  to 
ward  Hydrangea  House.  Checked  relentlessly 
into  a  walk  the  roan  stepped  in  a  dainty  fume. 

Eliza's  countenance  was  as  tenderly  hued  as  the 
pearly  haze  that  overlay  the  far  hills ;  faint,  mauve 
shadows  deepened  the  blueness  of  her  eyes;  her 
mouth,  slightly  parted,  held  the  fragile  pink  of 
coral ;  a  tinge  of  weariness  upon  her  bore  an  infi 
nite  appeal — her  relaxed,  drooping  body  filled 
him  with  a  gusty  longing  to  put  his  arms  about  her 
shoulders  and  hold  her  secure  against  all  fatigue, 
against  the  assaults  of  time  itself. 

He  had  never  before  driven  such  an  impatient 
[95] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

and  hasty  animal;  at  the  slightest  slackening  of 
the  reins  the  horse  broke  into  a  sharp  trot;  and, 
beyond  doubt,  he  could  walk  faster  than  any 
other  brute  alive.  Already  they  were  at  the  en 
trance  to  the  driveway;  the  house  appeared  to 
hurry  forward  to  intercept  them.  Eliza  pressed 
a  button,  and  a  man  crossed  the  grass  to  the  roan's 
head.  They  descended,  and  she  lingered  on  the 
steps  with  a  murmur  of  gratitude.  "Mrs.  Dreen 
telephoned  Ranke  to  meet  the  eight-forty,"  a  serv 
ant  in  the  doorway  replied  to  Eliza's  query. 
"She's  having  dinner  in  town  with  Mr.  Dreen." 

Eliza  turned  with  a  gesture  of  appeal.  "Save 
me  from  a  solitary  pudding,"  she  petitioned  An 
thony.  "You  can  go  back  with  Ranke.  .  .  .  On 
the  porch,  such  fun — father  detests  candles." 
Any  expression  of  his  acceptance  he  felt  to  be  an 
absurd  formality.  "Then  if  you  can  amuse 
yourself,"  she  announced,  "I'll  vanish  for  a  little 
.  .  .  cigars  in  the  library  and  victrola  in  the 
hall." 

He  crossed  the  sod  to  the  porch  on  the  other 
face  of  the  house,  and  sat  watching  the  day  fade 

[96] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

from  the  valley  below.  A  violet  blur  of  smoke 
overhung  the  chimney  of  the  Ellerton  Waterworks, 
printed  thinly  on  the  sky.  A  sense  of  detachment 
from  that  familiar  scene  enveloped  him — the  base 
ball  field,  the  defunct  garage,  places  and  details, 
customary,  normal,  retreated  into  the  distance,  it 
seemed  into  the  past,  gathering  upon  the  horizon 
of  his  thoughts  as  the  roof  of  Ellerton  huddled 
beyond  the  hills,  vanishing  into  shadows  that  in 
exorably  deepened,  blotted  out  the  old  aspects, 
stilled  the  accustomed  voices  and  sounds  of  his  un 
complicated  youth. 

A  servant  appeared,  and  placing  a  table  upon 
the  tiles,  spread  a  blanched  cloth,  gleaming  crys 
tal  and  silver.  A  low  bowl  of  shadowy  wood  vio 
lets  was  ranged  in  the  center,  and  hooded  candles 
cast  over  the  table,  the  flowers,  a  pale,  auriferous 
pool  of  light  in  the  purpling  dusk.  When  Eliza 
followed,  in  filmy  white,  she  seemed  half  material 
ized  from  the  haunting  vision  of  poignant  beauty 
at  the  back  of  his  brain.  She  was  like  moonlight, 
still  and  yet  disturbing,  veiled  in  illusion,  in 
strange,  ethereal  influences  that  set  athrill  within 

[97] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

him  emotions  immaterial,  potent,  snowy  longing, 
for  which  he  had  no  name. 

The  last  plate  removed,  Anthony  stirred  his 
coffee  in  a  state  of  dreamy  happiness.  The  can 
dlelight  spread  a  wan  gold  veil  over  Eliza's  deli 
cate  countenance,  it  slid  over  the  pearls  about  her 
slim  throat,  and  fell  upon  her  fragile  wrists. 
"It's  been  wonderful,"  he  pronounced  solemnly. 

"I've  been  terribly  rude,"  she  told  him,  "I  have 
hardly  spoken.  I  have  been  busy  studying  you." 

"There's  not  much  to  study,"  he  disclaimed; 
"Mrs.  Bosbyshell  thinks  I'm  marked  for  failure." 
In  reply  to  her  demand  he  gave  a  brief  and  diffi 
dent  account  of  that  eccentric  old  woman.  "But," 
Eliza  discerned  among  the  meager  details,  "she 
trusts  you,  she  lets  you  into  her  house.  And  you 
are  perfect  to  her,  of  course. 

"Any  one  could  trust  you,  I  think.  Yet  you 
are  not  a  particle  tiresome ;  most  trustworthy  peo 
ple  are  so — so  unexciting.  But  monotony  is  as 
far  as  possible  from  your  vicinity.  What  did 
you  do,  for  instance,  this  morning?" 

He  described  to  her  the  advent  of  the  circus,  the 
[98] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

labor  in  the  obscurity.  "I  was  surprised  to  see 
the  old  thing  up,"  he  ended.  "It  seemed  so  hope 
less  at  first." 

"How  wonderfully  poetic!"  she  cried. 

Until  that  moment  poetry  had  occupied  a  place 
analogous  to  tea  in  his  thoughts.  In  his  brief 
passage  through  the  last  school  he  had  been  forc 
ibly  fed  with  Gray's  Elegy,  discovering  it  un 
mitigated  and  sickening  rot.  But  now,  in  view 
of  her  obvious  pleasure,  he  would  have  to  recon 
sider  his  judgment. 

"That  blind  effort,"  she  continued,  leaning  for 
ward,  flushed  with  the  warmth  of  her  image,  "all 
those  men  struggling,  building  in  the  dark,  unable 
to  see  what  they  were  accomplishing,  or  what  part 
the  others  had.  And  then — oh !  don't  you  see !  — 
the  great,  snowy  tent  in  the  morning  sun — a  figure 
of  the  success,  the  reward,  of  all  labor,  all  living." 

"How  about  the  ones  that  loafed — didn't  pull, 
or  were  drunk?" 

"For  all,"  she  insisted,  "sober  and  drunk  and 
shrinking.  Can  you  think  that  any  supreme 
judgment  would  be  cheaply  material,  or  in  need 

[99] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

of  any  of  our  penny  abilities  ?  do  you  suppose  the 
supreme  beauty  has  no  standard  higher  than  those 
practical  minds  that  hold  out  heaven  as  a  sort  of 
reward  for  washed  faces?  Anthony,"  it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  called  him  that,  and  it  rang  in 
his  brain  in  a  long  peal  of  rapture,  "if  there  isn't 
a  heaven  for  every  one,  there  isn't  any  at  all. 
You,  singing  an  idle  song,  must  be  as  valuable  as 
the  greatest  apostle  to  any  supreme  love,  or  else 
it  isn't  supreme,  it  isn't  love." 

"You  are  so  wonderfully  good,"  he  muttered, 
"that  you  think  every  one  else  is  good  too." 

"But  I'm  hardly  a  bit  good,"  she  assured  him, 
"and  I  wouldn't  be  good  if  I  could — in  the  Chris 
tian  kind  of  way."  She  gazed  about  with  an  af 
fectation  of  secretiveness,  then  leaned  across  her 
coffee  cup.  "It  would  bore  me  horribly,"  she 
confided,  "that  'other  cheek'  thing;  I'm  not  a 
grain  humble;  and  I  spend  a  criminal  amount  of 
money  on  my  clothes.  I  have  even  put  a  patch 
upon  my  cheek  to  be  a  gin  and  stumbling-block  to 
a  young  man." 

She  had! 

[100] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

He  surveyed  with  absurd  pleasure  that  "minute 
black  crescent  on  the  pale  rose  of  her  countenance. 
If  she  had  been  good  before  she  was  adorable 
now:  her  confession  had  drawn  her  out  of  the 
resplendent  cloud,  where  he  had  elevated  her, 
down  to  his  side;  she  was  infinitely  more  desir 
able,  more  warmly  and  delightfully  human. 

"I  have  been  asking  about  you,"  she  told  him 
later,  with  a  slight  frown;  "the  accounts  are,  well 
— various.  I  don't  mind  your — your  friends  of 
the  stables,  Anthony;  they  are,  what  Ellerton  will 
never  learn,  the  careless  choice  of  a  born  aristo 
crat;  I  don't  care  a  Tecla  pearl  whether  you  are 
'a  steady  young  man'  or  not.  And  one  doesn't 
hear  a  whisper  of  meanness  about  you  anywhere. 
But  I  have  an  exaggerated  affection  for  things 
that  are  beautiful,  I  suppose  it's  a  weakness, 
really,  and  ugly  people  or  surroundings,  harsh 
voices  even,  terrify  me.  The  possibility  of  cruelty 
makes  me  cold.  And,  since  you  will  come  into 
my  thoughts,  and  smile  your  funny  little  smile  at 
me  out  of  walls  and  other  impossible  places,  I 
should  like  to  picture  you,  not  in  pool  rooms,  but 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

on  the  hills  that  you  know  so  well.  I  should  like 
to  think  of  your  mind  echoing  with  the  rush  of 
those  streams,  the  hunting  of  those  owls,  you  told 
me  about,  and  not  sounding  with  coarse  and  silly 
and  brutal  words  and  ideas." 

"It  echoes  with  you,"  he  replied,  "and  you  are 
more  beautiful  than  hills  and  streams." 

For  a  moment  she  held  his  gaze  full  in  the  blue 
depths  of  her  vision;  then,  with  a  troubled  smile, 
evaded  it.  "I'm  a  patched  jade,"  she  announced. 

Ranke,  the  servant  informed  them,  was  ready 
to  meet  the  train. 

"You're  going  .  .  .  Ellie's  affair  on  the 
Wingohocking  ?" 

"Absolutely."  She  stood  elusive  against  the 
saffron  blur  of  the  candles,  the  sweeping  hem  of 
night. 

"I'll  remember,"  he  blundered;  "whatever  you 
would  wish  .  .  .  you  have  changed  everything. 
The  dinner  was — I  don't  remember  what  it  was," 
he  confessed.  "But  I  remember  an  olive." 

He  left  the  automobile  at  the  edge  of  Ellerton, 
and  proceeded  on  foot,  passing  the  dully-shining 
[102] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

bulk  of  the  circus  tent.  He  heard  the  brassy  dis 
sonance  of  the  band  within,  the  monotonous  thud 
of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  tanbark;  a  raucous  voice 
rose  at  the  entrance  to  the  side  show,  dwelling 
unctuously  on  the  monstrosities  to  be  viewed 
within  for  the  price  of  a  dime,  of  a  dime,  a  dime. 
He  recalled  the  spent  lioness  in  her  painted  cage, 
the  haggard  and  sick  hyena,  the  abject  trot  of  the 
wolves  to  nowhere.  A  sudden  exhalation  of 
hatred  swept  over  him  for  the  hideous  inhumanity 
of  circuses  and  men.  Eliza  had  lifted  him  from 
the  meaningless  babble  of  trivial  and  hard  voices 
into  a  high  and  immaculate  region  of  shining 
space  and  quietude.  He  didn't  want  to  come 
down  again,  he  protested,  to  this. 


[103] 


XV 

ANTHONY  passed  the  few  days  intervening 
till  the  excursion  on  the  Wingohocking  in  a 
state  of  rapt  absorption:  his  brain  sounded  with 
every  tone  of  Eliza's  voice;  she  smiled  at  him,  in 
riding  garb,  over  that  delicate  trail  of  freckles; 
he  saw  her  in  the  misty,  amber  dress  of  the  dance ; 
in  white,  illusively  lit  by  the  candles  against  the 
shadowy  veranda.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  day 
that  had  succeeded  haphazard  to  day,  without  re 
lation  or  plan,  were  strung  together,  bound  into  an 
intelligible  whole,  by  the  thread  of  romance.  He 
must  get  a  firm  grip  upon  reality,  construct  a  solid 
existence  out  of  the  unsubstantial  elements  of  his 
living;  but,  in  his  new  felicity,  he  was  unable  to 
direct  his  thoughts  to  details  inevitably  sordid; 
he  was  lost  in  the  miracle  of  Eliza  Dreen's  mere 
presence;  material  considerations  might,  must,  be 
deferred  a  short  while  longer. 

A  stainless  afternoon  sky  overspread  finally  the 
[104] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

group  gathered  about  covered  willow  baskets  on 
the  green  bank  of  the  stream.  Behind  them  the 
meadow  swept  level,  reflecting  the  flood  of  the  sun 
with  a  blaze  of  aureate  flowers  to  a  silver  band  of 
birch ;  the  upstream  reach,  wrinkled  and  dark,  was 
lost  between  tangles  of  wild  grapes ;  below,  with  a 
smooth,  virid  rush,  the  water  poured  and  broke 
over  rocky  shallows. 

Anthony  launched  his  canoe  from  a  point  of 
crystalline  sand,  and,  holding  it  against  the  bank, 
gazed  covertly  at  Eliza.  She  was  once  more  in 
white,  with  a  broad  apple-green  ribband  about 
her  waist:  she  stood  above  him,  slenderly  poised 
against  the  sky;  she  was  so  rare,  he  thought,  so 
ethereal,  that  she  seemed  capable  of  floating  off 
into  the  blue.  Then  he  bent,  hastily  rearranging 
a  cushion,  for  she  was  descending  toward  him. 
He  stepped  skillfully  after  her  into  the  craft,  and 
they  drifted  silently  over  the  surface  of  the  stream. 
A  thrust  of  the  paddle,  in  a  swirl  of  white  bubbles, 
turned  them  about,  and  they  advanced  steadily 
against  the  sliding  current. 

The  still,  watery  facsimile  of  the  banks  was 
[105] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

broken  into  liquid  blots  of  emerald  and  bronze 
by  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  The  air  rose  coldly 
from  the  surface  to  Anthony's  face ;  from  the  mead 
ows  on  either  hand  came  the  light,  dry  fragrance 
of  newly-cut  hay;  before  them  trees,  meeting 
above,  formed  a  somber  reach,  barred  with  dusty 
gold  shafts  of  sunlight  that  sank  into  the  clear 
depths.  He  heard  behind  the  distant  dip  of  pad 
dles,  the  floating  voices,  worlds  removed. 

Eliza  trailed  her  hand  in  the  water.  An  idyllic 
silence,  which  he  was  loath  to  break,  folded  them. 
.  .  .  He  had  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  the  mus 
cles  of  his  forearms  swelled  rhythmically  under 
the  clear,  brown  skin. 

"You  are  preposterously  strong,"  she  approved. 
His  elation,  however,  collapsed  at  the  condition 
following.  "But  strength  is  simply  brutality  un 
til  it's  wisely  directed.  Mazzini  and  not  Na 
poleon  was  my  ideal  in  history." 

Who,  he  wondered  unhappily,  was  Mazzini? 
"I  hated  school,"  he  told  her  briefly.     "I  don't 
believe  I  have  ever  read  a  book  through;    I'd 
rather  paddle  about — with  you." 
[106] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

"But  you  have  read  deep  in  the  book  of  nature," 
she  reassured  him.  "Only  a  very  favorite  few 
open  those  pages.  You  are  such  a  child,"  she 
added  obliquely,  "appallingly  unsophisticated: 
that's  what's  nicest  about  you,  really." 

That  form  of  laudation  left  him  cold,  and  he 
drove  the  canoe  with  a  vicious  rush  against  the  re 
flections.  "A  dear  child,"  she  added,  without  ma 
terially  increasing  his  pleasure. 

"Words  are  rot!"  he  exploded  suddenly;  "they 
can't  say  any  of  the  important  things.  I  could 
talk  a  year  to  you  without  telling  you  what  I  feel 
— here,"  he  laid  a  hand  momentarily  on  his  spare, 
powerful  chest;  "it's  all  mixed  up,  like  lead  and 
fire;  or  that  feeling  when  ice  cream  goes  to  your 
head.  You  see,"  he  ended  moodily,  "all  rot." 

"It's  very  picturesque  .  .  .  and  apparently 
painful.  Words  aren't  necessary  for  the  truly 
important  things,  Anthony." 

"Then  you  know — what  I  think  of  you;  you 
know  .  .  .  how  everything  else  has  moved  away 
and  left  only  you;  you  know  a  hundred  things,  all 
important,  all  about  yourself." 
[107] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

She  set  an  uncertain  smile  against  the  torrent 
of  his  words.  The  stream  narrowed  between  high 
banks  drawn  against  the  sheer  deeps  of  sky;  the 
water  flowed  swiftly,  with  a  sustained  whisper  at 
the  edges,  and,  for  a  silent  space,  he  paddled 
vigorously.  Then  a  dark,  glassy  pool  opened, 
sodded  bluely  to  the  shores,  with  low,  silvery 
clumps  of  willows  casting  sooty  shadows  across 
the  vert  water ;  and,  with  a  sharp  twist,  he  beached 
the  canoe  with  a  soft  shock  upon  the  shelving  peb 
bles.  As  he  held  the  craft  steady  he  felt  the  light, 
thrilling  impact  of  Eliza's  palm  as  she  sprang 
ashore. 

The  others  followed  rapidly.  The  canoes  were 
drawn  out  of  the  water,  and  preparations  for  sup 
per  began.  Eliza  and  Ellie  Ball,  accompanied  by 
a  youth  with  a  pail,  proceeded  to  a  nearby  farm 
house  in  quest  of  milk.  Anthony  lingered  at  the 
water's  edge,  ignoring  the  appeal  for  firewood. 
The  glow  of  the  westering  sun  faded  from  the 
air,  and  the  reflection  of  the  fire  lighted  behind 
him  danced  ruddy  on  the  grass.  At  intervals 
small  fish  splashed  invisibly,  and  a  kingfisher 
[108] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

cried  downstream.  Then  he  heard  his  sister's 
voice,  and  a  familiar  and  moving  perfume  hovered 
in  his  nostrils.  He  turned  and  saw  Eliza  with 
her  arms  full  of  white  lilacs.  Her  loveliness  left 
him  breathless;  mingled  with  the  low  sun  it 
blinded  him.  She  seemed  all  made  of  misty 
bloom — a  fragrant  spirit  of  ineffable  flowers. 
The  scent  of  the  lilacs  stirred  profound,  inarticu 
late  emotions  within  him,  like  the  poignant  im 
pression  left  by  a  forgotten  dream  of  shivering 
delight. 

He  scorned  the  fare  soon  spread  on  the  clothed 
sod,  burning  his  throat  stoically  with  a  cup  of  un 
sweetened  coffee.  Eliza  sat  beyond  the  charring 
remains  of  the  fire  sinking  from  cherry-red  em 
bers  to  impalpable  white  ash.  He  observed  with 
secret  satisfaction  that  she  too  ate  little:  he  felt 
that  an  appetite  on  her  part  would  have  been  a 
calamity. 

The  meadows  and  distant  woods  were  vague 

against  the  primrose  west,  the  cyanite  curtain  of 

the  east,  when  the  baskets  were  assembled  for  the 

return.     Anthony  delayed  over  the  arrangement 

[109] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

of  his  craft  until  Eliza  and  himself  were  last  in 
the  floating  procession.  Dense  shadows,  droop 
ing  from  the  trees,  filled  the  banks;  overhead  the 
sky  was  clear  green.  They  swept  silently  forward 
with  the  current  and  a  rare  dip  of  the  paddle. 
Eliza's  countenance  was  just  palely  visible.  The 
lilacs  lay  in  a  pallid  heap  at  their  feet.  On  either 
hand  the  world  floated  back  darkly  like  an  im 
material  void  through  which  a  silver  stream  bore 
them  beyond  the  stars. 

At  a  bend  he  reached  up  and  caught  hold  of  an 
overhanging  branch,  and  they  swung  into  a  shal 
low  backwater.  A  deep  shelf  of  stone  lay  under 
the  face  of  the  bank,  closed  in  by  a  network  of 
wildgrape  stems.  "This  is  where  I  sometimes 
stay  at  night,"  he  told  her;  "no  one  knows  but 
you." 


[110] 


XVI 

SHE  rose,  and,  without  warning,  stepped  out 
upon  the  rock.  "Here's  where  you  build 
your  fire,"  she  cried  at  the  discovery  of  a  black 
ened  heap  of  ashes.  He  secured  the  canoe  and 
followed  her.  "Ideal,"  she  breathed.  The 
sound  of  the  fall  below  was  faintly  audible;  the 
quavering  cry  of  an  owl,  the  beating  of  heavy 
wings,  rose  above  the  bank.  "Don't  you  envy  the 
old  pastoral  people  following  their  flocks  from 
land  to  land,  setting  up  their  tents  by  streams  like 
this,  waking  with  the  dawn  on  the  world?  or 
Gipsies  .  .  .  you  must  read  'Lavengro.'  " 

"I  don't  envy  any  one  on  God's  little  globe,"  he 
asserted;  "to  be  here  with  you  is  the  best  thing 
possible." 

"Something  more  desirable  would  soon  occur 
to  you." 

"Than  you! "  he  protested;  "than  you! " 

"But  people  get  tired  of  what  they  have." 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"It's  what  they  don't  have  that  makes  them  old 
and  tired,"  he  told  her  with  sudden  prescience. 
"When  I  think  of  what  I  am  going  to  lose,  of  what 
I  can  never  have,  it  makes  me  crazy." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  .  .  .  How  can  you 
know?" 

She  was  standing  close  to  him  in  the  constricted 
space,  the  tangible  shock  of  her  nearness  sweeping 
over  him  in  waves  of  heady  emotion.  The  water 
gurgling  by  the  rock  was  the  only  sound  in  a 
world-stillness. 

"I  mean  you." 

"Well,  I'm  not  fairy  gold;  I'm  not  the  end  of 
the  rainbow.  I  am  just  Eliza." 

"Just  Eliza ! "  he  scoffed.  Then  the  possibility 
contained  in  her  words  struck  him  dumb.  The 
feeling  irresistibly  returned  that  because  of  her 
heavenly  ignorance,  her  charity,  she  mistook  him 
to  be  worthy.  The  necessity  to  guard  her  from 
her  own  divinity  impelled  him  to  repeat,  miser 
ably,  all  that  she  had  ignored. 

"I'm  not  much  account,"  he  said  laboriously. 
"You  see,  I  never  stuck  at  anything,  and,  some- 
[112] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

how,  things  have  never  stuck  to  me.  It  was  that 
way  at  school — I  was  expelled  from  four.  I'm 
supposed  to  be  shiftless." 

"I  don't  care  in  the  least  for  that!"  she  de 
clared;  "only  one  thing  is  really  important  to  me 
.  .  .  something,  oh,  so  different."  Suddenly  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  sleeve,  and,  pitifully  white, 
faced  him.  "I've  had  the  beautifullest  feeling 
about  you,"  she  whispered.  "Anthony,  tell  me 
truly,  are  you  .  .  .  good?" 

A  sob  rose  uncontrollably  in  his  throat,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears  that  spilled  over  his  cheeks. 
For  a  moment  he  struggled  to  check  them,  then, 
unashamed,  slipped  on  his  knees  before  her  and 
held  her  tightly  in  his  arms.  "No  one  in  the 
world  can  say  that  I  am  not — what  you  mean." 

She  stooped,  and  sat  beside  him  on  the  stone, 
holding  his  hand  close  to  her  slight  body.  "My 
dream,"  she  said  simply.  "I  didn't  understand 
it  at  first;  you  see,  I  was  only  a  child.  And  then 
when  I  grew  older,  and — and  heard  things,  it 
seemed  impossible.  That  sort  of  goodness  only 
bored  other  girls  .  .  .  they  liked  men  of  the 
[113] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

world,  men  with  a  past.     I  thought  perhaps  I  was 
only  morbid,  and  lost  trust  in — in  you." 

"It  was  a  kind  of  accident,"  he  admitted.  "I 
never  thought  about  it  the  way  you  did.  It 
seemed  young  to  me,  and  I  put  up  a  bluff  that  I 


was  wise." 


"I  don't  believe  it  was  an  accident  in  the  least," 
she  insisted.  A  mist  rose  greyly  from  the  darker 
surface  of  the  stream,  and  settled  cold  and  clammy 
about  Anthony's  face.  It  drew  about  them  in 
wavering  garlands,  growing  steadily  denser. 
Eliza  was  sitting  now  pressed  against  him,  and 
he  felt  a  shiver  run  through  her.  " You  are  cold ! " 
he  cried  instantly,  and  rose,  lifting  her  to  her  feet. 
She  smiled,  in  his  arms,  and  he  bent  down  and 
kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him  with  a  deep  sigh, 
and  met  his  lips  steadily  with  her  own.  The 
mist  slipped  like  a  veil  over  Eliza's  head  and 
drops  of  moisture  shone  in  her  hair.  Anthony 
turned  and  unfastened  the  canoe;  and,  suddenly 
conscious  of  the  length  of  their  delay,  he  urged 
it  with  long  sweeps  over  the  stream.  Beyond  the 
—  lilacs,  distilling  their  potent  sweetness  in  the  dark, 

[114] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

Eliza  was  motionless,  silent,  a  flicker  of  white  in 
the  gloom. 

They  swept  almost  immediately  into  the  broad 
reach  where  they  had  started.  The  lights  from 
the  windows  of  a  boat  house,  the  voices  of  the 
others,  streamed  gaily  over  the  water.  He  felt 
Eliza  tremble  as  he  lifted  her  ashore. 

"It's  happiness/'  she  told  him;  "I  am  ever  so 
warm  inside." 


[115] 


XVII 

THE  following  day  he  discovered  by  his 
plate  at  the  luncheon  table  a  small  laven 
der  envelope  stamped  and  addressed  to  Anthony 
Ball,  Esq.  He  slipped  it  hastily  into  his  pocket, 
and  managed  but  a  short-lived  pretext  of  eating. 
Then,  with  the  letter  yet  unopened,  he  left  Eller- 
ton,  and  penetrated  into  the  heart  of  the  country 
side. 

He  stopped,  finally,  under  a  fence  that  crossed 
a  hill,  on  a  slope  of  wild  strawberries.  The  hill 
fell  away  in  an  unbroken  sweep  of  undulating, 
blue-green  wheat;  trees  filled  the  hollow,  with  a 
roof  and  thread  of  silver  water  drawn  through 
the  close  leaves;  on  either  hand  chocolate  loam 
bore  the  tender  ripple  of  young  corn ;  and  beyond, 
crossed  by  the  shifting  shadows  of  slow-drifting 
clouds,  hill  and  wood  and  pasture  spread  a  mel 
low  mosaic  of  summer. 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  with  a  reluctant  de- 
[116] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

light.  At  the  top  of  the  sheet  E  D  was  stamped 
severely  in  mauve.  "My  very  dear,"  he  read. 
He  stopped,  suddenly  unable  to  proceed;  the 
countryside  swam  in  his  vision;  he  gulped  an 
ecstatic,  convulsive  breath,  and  proceeded: 

"It's  too  wonderful — I  can't  realize  that  you 
exist,  and  that  I  have  found  you  in  such  a  great 
world.  Isn't  it  strange  how  real  dreams  are ;  just 
now  the  real  world  seems  the  dream,  and  my  dear 
home,  my  mother,  shadows  compared  to  the 
thoughts  that  fill  my  brain  of  you,  you,  you. 

"But  I  am  writing  mostly  to  tell  you  some 
thing  that,  perhaps,  you  didn't  fully  understand 
yesterday — and  yet  I  think  you  must  have — that, 
if  you  really  want  me,  I  am  absolutely  your  own. 
I  couldn't  help  it  if  I  wanted  to,  and,  oh,  I  don't 
want  to!  I  let  a  man  at  Etretat  kiss  me,  and  I 
am  glad  I  did,  for  it  made  me  understand  that  I 
must  wait  for  you. 

"I  won't  write  any  more  now  because  my  head 
aches.  From  Eliza  who  loves  you  utterly." 
Then  he  saw  that  she  had  written  on  the  follow 
ing  page:  "Don't  worry  about  money  and  the 
[117] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

future;  I  have  my  own,  all  we  shall  need  for 
years,  and  we  can  do  something  together." 

He  laid  the  letter  beside  him  on  the  grass. 
The  welling  song  of  a  catbird  sounded  unsup- 
portably  sweet,  and  a  peaceful  column  of  smoke 
rose  bluely  from  the  chimney  below:  it  carried 
him  in  imagination  to  a  dwelling  set  in  a  still, 
green  garden,  where  birds  filled  the  branches  with 
melody,  and  Eliza  and  himself  walked  hand  in 
hand  and  kissed.  Night  would  gather  in  about 
their  joy,  their  windows  would  shine  with  the  gol 
den  lamp  of  their  seclusion,  their  voices  mingle 
.  .  .  sink  .  .  .  sacred. 

He  dreamed  for  a  long  while ;  the  sunlight  van 
ished  from  the  slope  below  him,  from  the  dark 
ling  trees,  touched  only  the  farthest  hills  with  a 
rosy  glow.  As  the  sun  sank  an  errant  air  whis 
pered  in  the  wheat,  and  scattered  the  pungent 
aroma  of  the  wild  strawberries.  A  voice  called 
thinly  from  the  swales,  and  cows  gathered  indis 
tinctly  about  a  gate.  Anthony  rose.  The  world 
was  one  vast  harmony  in  which  he  struck  the 
highest,  happiest  note.  Beyond  the  near  hills  the 
[118] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

lilac  glitter  of  the  Ellerton  lights  sprang  palely 
up  on  the  blue  dusk.  As  he  made  his  way  home, 
Anthony's  brain  teemed  with  delightful  projects, 
with  anticipation,  the  thought  of  the  house  in  the 
hollow — abode  of  love,  steeped  in  night. 


[119] 


XVIII 

ELLIE  was  in  the  garden,  and  interrupted 
his  progress  toward  a  belated  dinner. 
"Father  wants  to  see  you,"  she  called;  "at  the 
Club,  of  course."  He  wondered  absently,  ap 
proaching  the  Club,  what  his  father  wanted. 
The  rooms  occupied  the  second  story  of  the  edifice 
that  housed  the  administration  of  the  county;  the 
main  corridor  was  choked  by  a  crowd  that  moved 
noisily  toward  an  auditorium  in  the  rear,  but  the 
Club  was  silent,  save  for  the  click  of  invisible 
billiard  balls. 

His  father  was  asleep  in  the  reading  room,  a 
newspaper  spread  upon  his  knees,  and  one  thin 
hand  twisted  in  his  beard.  Through  an  open 
window  drifted  the  strains  of  a  band  on  the 
Court  House  lawn.  The  older  man  woke,  clear 
ing  his  throat  sharply.  "Well,  Anthony,"  he 
nodded.  Anthony  found  a  chair. 

His  father  leaned  forward,  regarding  him  with 
[120] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

a  keen,  kindly  gaze.  "I'm  told  the  garage  has 
gone  up,"  he  began. 

"Sam  took  his  car  away;  it  was  Alfred's  in 
fernal  tinkering;  he  can't  let  a  machine  alone." 

"Did  you  close  affairs  satisfactorily,  stop  sol 
vent?" 

"There's  a  little  debt  of  about  six  dollars." 

The  other  sought  his  wallet,  and,  removing  a 
rubber  band,  counted  six  dollars  into  Anthony's 
hand.  "Meet  that  in  the  morning."  He  leaned 
back,  tapping  the  wallet  with  deliberate  fingers: 
"I  suppose  you  have  no  plan  for  the  immediate 
future." 

"Nothing  right  now." 

"I  have  one  for  you,  though,  as  'right  now' 
as  this  week." 

Anthony  listened  respectfully,  his  mind  still 
dwelling  upon  the  beauty  of  the  dusk  without,  of 
life.  "You  have  tried  a  number  of  things  in  the 
past  few  years  without  success.  I  have  started 
you  in  a  small  way  again  and  again,  only  to  ob 
serve  the  familiar  course  of  a  failure  inevitable 
from  your  shiftless  habits.  You  are  not  a  bad 
[121] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

boy,  but  you  have  no  ability  to  concentrate,  like 
a  stream  spread  all  over  the  meadow — you  have 
no  course.  You're  a  loiterer." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Anthony,  from  the  midst  of  his 
abstraction. 

"You  are  too  old  for  that  now,  either  it  must 
stop  at  once,  or  you  will  become  definitely  worth 
less.  I  am  going  to  make  a  determined  effort — 
I  am  going  to  send  you  to  California,  your  broth 
er-in-law  writes  that  he  can  give  you  something." 

The  term  California  sounded  in  Anthony's 
brain  like  the  unexpected  clash  of  an  immense 
bell.  It  banished  his  pleasant  revery  in  dis 
ordered  shreds,  filling  him  with  sudden  dis 
may. 

"I  telegraphed  Albert  yesterday,"  the  even 
tones  continued,  "and  have  his  answer  in  my 
pocket.  You  are  to  go  out  to  him  immediately." 

"But  that's  impossible,"  Anthony  interrupted; 
"it  just  can't  be  done." 

"Why  not?" 

He  found  himself  completely  at  a  loss  to  give 
adequate  expression  to  his  reason  for  remaining 
[122] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

in  Ellerton.  His  joy  was  so  new  that  he  had 
scarcely  formulated  it  to  himself,  it  evaded  words, 
defied  definition — it  was  a  thing  of  dreams,  a 
vision  in  a  shining  garment,  a  fountain  of  life 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

"Come;  why  not?" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  Ellerton  .  .  . 
just  now." 

"That  is  precisely  what  you  must  do.  I  can 
understand  your  desire  to  remain  close  by  your 
mother — she  has  an  excuse  for  you,  assistance,  at 
every  turn." 

"That  isn't  the  reason;  it's  .  .  .  it's,"  he  bog 
gled  horribly,  "a  girl." 

"Indeed,"  his  father  remarked  dryly. 

Anthony  shrunk  painfully  from  the  unsym 
pathetic  voice  of  the  elder.  A  new  defiance  of 
his  father  welled  hotly  within  him,  corrupting 
the  bonds  of  discipline  that  had  held  him  lovingly 
to  his  parent  throughout  the  past.  A  chasm 
opened  between  them;  and,  when  Anthony  spoke 
again,  it  was  with  a  voice  of  insipient  insub 
ordination. 

[123] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

"It  isn't  the  silly  stuff  you  think,"  he  told  the 
other;  "I'm  engaged!" 

"What  on?"  pithily  came  the  inquiry.  "Un 
fortunately  I  can't  afford  the  luxury  of  a  daugh 
ter-in-law.  I  believed  you  were  something  more 
of  a  man  than  to  bring  your  wife  into  your  moth 
er's  house." 

"I  sha'n't;  we  can  get  along  until  I  ...  find 
work." 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  wife  will  support 
you?" 

"Not  altogether;  she  will  help  until — until — " 
he  stopped  miserably  before  the  anger  confront 
ing  him  in  the  other's  gaze:  it  was  useless  to  ex 
plain,  he  thought;  but  if  his  father  laughed  at 
him,  at  his  love,  he  would  leave  the  room  and 
never  see  him  again.  "I  can't  see  why  money  is 
so  damned  holy!"  he  broke  out;  "why  it  matters 
so  infernally  where  it  comes  from;  it  seems  to  me 
only  a  dirty  detail." 

"It  is  the  measure  of  a  man's  honor,"  the 
elder  Ball  told  him  inexorably;  "how  it  is  made 
or  got  stamps  you  in  the  world.  I  am  surprised 
[124] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

to  hear  that  you  would  even  consider  taking  it 
from  a  woman,  surprised  and  hurt.  It  shows  all 
the  more  clearly  the  necessity  for  your  going  at 
once  into  a  hard,  healthy  existence.  Your  mother 
will  get  you  ready;  a  couple  of  days  should  do  it." 

".  .  .  all  unexpected,"  Anthony  muttered;  "I 
must  think  about  it,  see  some  one.  I'll — I'll  talk 
to  you  to-morrow.  That's  it,"  he  enunciated 
more  hopefully,  "to-morrow — " 

"Entirely  unnecessary,"  his  father  interposed, 
"nothing  to  be  gained  by  delay  or  further  talk. 
The  thing's  arranged." 

"I  think  I  won't  go,"  Anthony  told  him  slowly. 
The  other  picked  up  the  paper,  smoothing  out  the 
creases.  "Very  well,"  he  replied;  "I  dare  say 
your  mother  will  do  something  for  you.  Women 
are  the  natural  source  of  supplies  for  the  sort  of 
person  you  seem  at  the  point  of  becoming."  The 
barrier  of  paper,  covered  with  print  in  regular 
columns,  shut  one  from  the  other. 

Anthony  burned  under  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  injustice.  He  decided  that  he  would  leave  the 
room,  his  father,  forever;  but,  somehow,  he  re- 
[125] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

mained  motionless  in  his  chair,  casting  about  in 
his  thoughts  for  words  with  which  to  combat  the 
elder's  scorn.  He  thought  of  Eliza;  she  smiled 
at  him  with  appealing  loveliness;  he  felt  her  let 
ter  in  his  pocket,  remembered  her  boundless  gen 
erosity.  He  couldn't  leave  her!  The  band  in 
the  square  below  was  playing  a  familiar  operatic 
lament,  and  the  refrain  beat  on  his  consciousness 
in  waves  of  despairing  and  poignant  longing.  A 
sea  of  misery  swept  over  him  in  which  he  strug 
gled  like  a  spent  swimmer — Eliza  was  the  far, 
silver  shore  toward  which  he  fought.  It  wasn't 
fair — a  sob  almost  mastered  him — to  ask  him  to 
go  away  now,  when  he  had  but  found  the  inspira 
tion  of  her  charm. 

"It's  not  Siberia,"  he  heard  his  father  say, 
"nor  a  life  sentence;  if  this — this  'girl'  is  serious, 
you  will  be  closer  working  for  her  in  California 
than  idle  in  Ellerton." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  her,"  he  whis 
pered;  "the  world's  such  a  hell  of  a  big,  empty 
place  .  .  .  things  happen."  He  dashed  some 
bright  tears  from  his  eyes,  gazed  through  the  win- 
[126] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

dow  at  the  tops  of  the  maple  trees — a  black  tracery 
of  foliage  against  the  lights  below. 

"Two  or  three  years  should  set  you  on  your 
feet,  give  you  an  opportunity  to  return."  Eter 
nity  could  scarcely  have  seemed  more  appalling 
than  the  term  casually  indicated  by  his  father;  it 
was  unthinkable!  A  club  member  entered,  fin 
gering  the  racked  journals  on  the  long  table,  ex 
changing  trivial  comments  with  the  older  Ball. 
It  seemed  incredible  to  Anthony,  in  the  face  of  the 
cataclysm  which  threatened  him,  that  the  world 
should  continue  to  revolve  callously  about  such 
topics.  It  was  an  affront  to  the  gravity,  the  dig 
nity,  of  his  suffering.  He  swiftly  left  the  room. 


[127] 


XIX 

IT  was  Saturday  night,  Bay  Street  was 
thronged,  the  stores  brilliantly  lit.  He  saw 
in  the  distance  the  red  and  blue  jars  of  illuminated 
water  that  advertised  Doctor  Allhop's  drugstore, 
and  turned  abruptly  on  his  heel.  In  the  seclu 
sion  of  his  room  he  once  more  read  Eliza's  letter: 
it  was  a  superlative  document  of  sweet  common 
sense,  the  soul  of  nobility,  of  wisdom,  of  tender 
ness,  of  divine  pity.  In  its  light  all  other  sug 
gestions,  considerations,  courses,  seemed  tawdry 
and  ignoble.  The  boasted  wisdom  of  a  world  of 
old  men,  of  material  experience,  seemed  only  the 
mean  makeshifts  for  base  and  unworthy  ends. 
The  ecstasy  sweeping  from  his  heart  to  his  brain, 
the  delicious  fancies,  the  rare  harmonies,  that 
haunted  him,  the  ineffable  perfume  of  invisible 
lilacs — these  were  the  true  material  from  which 
to  fashion  life,  these  were  the  high  things,  the 
important.  And  youth  was  the  time  to  grasp 
[128] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

them:  a  swift  premonition  seized  him  of  the  cold 
ness,  the  ineptitude,  the  disease,  of  old  age. 

For  the  first  time  his  realization  of  death  had 
a  definite  connection  with  himself :  he  was  turning 
out  the  gas,  preparatory  for  sleep;  and  at  the  in 
stantaneous  darkness,  he  thought,  with  a  gasp  of 
fear,  it  would  be  like  that.  He  stood  trembling 
as  a  full  realization  of  disillusion  mastered  him; 
all  his  hot,  swinging  blood,  the  instinctive  long 
ing  for  perpetuation  aroused  in  him  by  Eliza,  in 
sick  revolt.  Fearsome  images  filled  his  mind 
.  .  .  the  hole  in  the  clay — closed;  putrefaction; 
the  linked  mass  of  worms.  In  feverish  haste  he 
lighted  the  gas ;  his  body  was  wet  with  sweat ;  his 
heart  pounding  unsteadily. 

The  familiar  aspect  of  his  room  somewhat  reas 
sured  him;  the  thought  dimmed,  slowly  con 
quered  by  the  flooding  tide  of  his  living.  Then 
he  realized  that  Eliza  too  must  die,  and  his  ter 
rors  vanished  before  a  loving  pity  for  her  earthly 
fragility.  Finally,  death  itself  assumed  a  less 
threatening  guise;  peace  stole  imperceptibly  into 
his  heart.  A  vague  belief,  new  born  of  his  pas- 
[129] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

sion,  that  dying  was  not  the  end  of  all,  rose 
within  him — there  must  be  a  struggle,  heights  to 
win,  gulfs  to  cross,  a  faith  to  keep.  With  steady 
fingers  he  put  out  the  gas.  Eliza  was  his  faith: 
he  fell  into  a  sound  slumber. 


[130] 


XX 

HE  made  no  comment  when,  in  the  morning, 
his  mother  made  tentative  piles  of  his 
clothing.  He  would  see  Eliza  that  afternoon,  and 
then  announce  their  decision.  His  mother  at 
tempted  to  fathom  his  feeling  at  the  prospect  of 
the  journey,  the  separation  from  Ellerton;  but, 
the  memory  of  his  father's  cutting  words  still 
rankling  in  his  mind,  he  evaded  her  questioning. 

"If  you  are  going  to  be  miserable  out  there," 
she  told  him,  enveloping  him  in  the  affection  of 
her  steady,  grey  gaze,  "something  else  might  be 
found.  I  can  always  help — " 

"You  don't  understand  these  things,"  he  inter 
rupted  her  brusquely,  annoyed  by  his  father's 
prescience.  They  were  sitting  in  her  sewing 
room,  a  pile  of  his  socks  at  her  side.  She  wore 
her  familiar,  severe  garb,  the  steel-bowed  spec 
tacles  directed  upon  the  needle  flashing  steadily 
[131] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

in  her  assured  fingers.  She  was  eternally  labor 
ing  for  her  children,  Anthony  realized  with  a  pang 
of  affection.  His  earliest  memories  were 
charged  with  her  unflagging  care,  the  touch  of  her 
smooth  and  tireless  hands,  the  defense  of  her 
energetic  voice. 

He  must  tell  her  about  his  engagement,  but  not 
until  he  had  seen  Eliza  again,  when  something 
definite  would  be  agreed  upon.  It  was  im 
mensely  difficult  for  him  to  talk  about  the  sub 
ject  nearest  his  heart — words  diminished  and  mis 
represented  it:  he  wanted  to  brood  over  it,  se 
cretly,  for  days. 


[132] 


XXI 

LATER  he  dressed  with  scrupulous  exacti 
tude,  and  proceeded  directly  to  Hy 
drangea  House.  The  afternoon  was  sultry,  the 
air  full  of  the  soothing  drone  of  summer  insects, 
the  dust  of  the  road  rose  in  heavy  puffs  about  his 
feet.  He  crossed  the  stream  and  fields,  saturated 
with  sunlight,  and  came  to  the  pillared  portico  of 
his  destination. 

"Miss  Dreen,"  Anthony  said,  stepping  for 
ward  into  the  opening  door. 

"Miss  Dreen  cannot  see  you,"  the  servant  re 
turned  without  hesitation.  Anthony  drew  back, 
momentarily  repelled;  but,  before  he  could  ques 
tion  this  announcement,  he  heard  grinding  wheels 
on  the  gravel  drive.  Turning,  he  saw  a  motor 
stop,  and  Mrs.  Dreen  descend,  followed  by  a  man 
with  a  somber,  deeply-scored  countenance.  An 
thony  moved  forward  eagerly  as  she  mounted  the 
[133] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

steps.  "Mrs.  Dreen,"  he  asked;  "can  you  tell 
me — "  She  passed  with  a  confused,  blank  face, 
without  stopping  or  acknowledging  his  saluta 
tion,  and  the  door  closed  softly  upon  her  and  her 
companion. 

A  momentary  flame  of  anger  within  Anthony 
quickly  sank  to  cold  consternation.  Eliza  had 
told  her  parents  and  they  had  dismissed  the  idea 
and  him.  It  was  evident  they  had  forbidden 
her  to  see  him.  He  walked  indecisively  down 
the  steps,  still  carrying  his  hat,  and  stopped  me 
chanically  on  the  driveway.  He  gazed  blindly 
over  a  brilliant,  scarlet  bed  of  geraniums,  over 
the  extended  lawn,  the  rolling  hills  of  Ellerton. 
Then  his  courage  returned,  stiffened  by  the  ob 
stacles  which  apparently  confronted  him:  he 
would  show  them  that  he  was  not  to  be  lightly  dis 
missed;  no  power  on  earth  should  separate  him 
from  Eliza. 

The  servant  had  only  obeyed  Mrs.  Dreen's  di 
rection;  Eliza,  he  was  certain,  had  no  choice  in 
the  matter  of  his  reception.  Then,  unexpectedly, 
he  remembered  his  father's  words,  the  latter's 
[134] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

contemptuous  reference  to  all  appeals  to  women. 
He  must  go  to  Mr.  Dreen,  and  straightforwardly 
state  his  position,  tell  him  .  .  .  what?  Why, 
that  he,  Anthony  Ball,  loved  Eliza,  desired  her, 
had  come  to  take  her  away  .  .  .  where?  In  all 
the  world  he  had  no  place  prepared  for  her.  He 
drove  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  discovered  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  and  some  odd  pennies — all 
that  he  possessed.  Suddenly  he  laughed,  a  short, 
sorry  merriment  that  stopped  in  a  dry  gasp.  He 
turned  and  ran,  stumbling  over  the  grass,  through 
the  hot  dust,  toward  Ellerton.  Two  years,  he 
thought,  California;  California  and  two  years. 


[135] 


XXII 

ANTHONY  sat  late  into  the  night  compos 
ing  an  explanatory  and  farewell  letter  to 
Eliza: 

"Your  family  would  laugh  at  me,"  he  wrote; 
"I  couldn't  show  them  a  dollar.  And  although 
my  father  has  done  a  great  deal  for  me  he 
wouldn't  do  this.  I  couldn't  expect  him  to. 
Mother  might  help,  she  is  like  you,  but  I  could 
not  very  well  live  between  two  women,  could  I? 
The  only  hope  is  California  for  a  couple  of  years. 
You  know  how  much  I  want  to  stay  with  you, 
how  hard  this  is  to  write,  when  our  engagement, 
everything,  is  so  new  and  wonderful.  But  it 
would  only  be  harder  later.  If  I  had  seen  you 
this  afternoon  I  would  never  have  left  you.  I 
am  going  to-morrow  night.  This  will  come  to 
you  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  be  home  if  you 
send  me  a  message.  I  would  like  to  see  you  again 
[136] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

before  I  go  away  in  order  to  come  back  to  you 
forever.  I  would  like  to  hear  you  say  again 
that  you  love  me.  Sometimes  I  think  it  never 
really  happened.  If  I  don't  see  you  again  be 
fore  I  leave,  remember  I  shall  never  change,  I 
shall  love  you  always  and  not  forget  the  least 
thing  you  said.  I  wish  now  I  had  studied  so 
that  I  could  write  better.  Remember  that  I  be 
long  to  you,  when  you  want  me  I  will  come  to  you 
if  it's  around  the  world ;  I  would  come  to  you  if  I 
were  dead  I  think.  Good-bye,  dear,  dear  Eliza, 
until  to-morrow  anyhow,  and  that's  a  long  while 
to  be  without  seeing  you  or  hearing  your  voice." 

At  the  announcement  of  his  agreement  to  go 
West,  the  attitude  of  his  father  had  modified 
greatly;  his  hand  continually  sought  Anthony's 
shoulder;  he  consulted  gravely,  as  it  were  with  an 
equal,  in  regard  to  trains,  precautions,  new  cli 
mates.  His  mother  busied  herself  over  his 
clothes,  her  rare  speech  brusque  and  hurried.  To 
Anthony  she  seemed  suddenly  old,  grey;  her 
hands  trembled,  and  necessary  stitches  were  un 
even. 

[137] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

He  was  aware  that  the  mail  for  Hydrangea 
House  was  collected  before  noon,  and  he  sat  ex 
pectantly  in  the  room  overlooking  the  street.  It 
was  dark  and  cool,  there  were  creamy  tea  roses 
in  the  Canton  jar  again,  while  in  the  street  it  was 
hot  and  bright.  A  sere  engraving  of  Joseph 
Bonaparte  in  regal  robes  gazed  serenely  from  the 
wall.  The  hour  for  luncheon  arrived  without  any 
message  from  Eliza.  Throughout  the  afternoon 
he  dropped  his  pressing  affairs  and  descended  to 
the  street  .  .  .  nothing. 

His  heart  grew  heavy  with  doubts,  with  fears 
— his  letter  had  been  intercepted;  or,  if  Eliza 
had  received  it,  her  answer  had  been  diverted. 
Perhaps  she  had  at  last  realized  that  he  was  un 
fit  for  her  love.  The  impulse  almost  mastered 
him  to  go  once  more  to  Hydrangea  House,  but 
pride  prevented;  his  unhappiness  hardened,  grew 
bitter,  suspicious.  Then  he  again  read  her  let 
ter,  and  its  patent  sincerity  swept  away  all  doubt; 
Eliza  was  unwavering;  if  not  now  he  would  find 
her  at  the  end  of  two  years,  unchanged,  warm, 
beautiful. 

[138] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

He  was  summoned  to  dinner,  where  he  found 
the  delicacies  he  especially  liked.  The  plates 
were  liberally  filled,  all  made  a  pretense  of  eat 
ing,  but,  at  the  end,  the  food  remained  hardly 
touched.  The  forced  conversation  fell  into  sud 
den,  disturbing  silences.  His  father  sharpened 
the  carving  knife  twice,  which,  for  shad  roe,  was 
scarcely  necessary;  his  mother  scolded  the  serv 
ant  without  cause;  even  Ellie  was  affected,  and 
smiled  at  him  with  a  bright  tenderness. 

He  was  to  leave  Ellerton  at  midnight  so  that 
he  would  be  enabled  to  connect  with  a  western 
express,  and  it  was  arranged  for  him  to  spend 
a  last  hour  at  the  Club  with  his  father.  Ellie 
and  the  servant  stood  upon  the  pavement,  his 
mother  was  upstairs  in  the  sewing  room  .  .  . 
where  he  entered  softly. 

At  the  Club  the  billiard  room  was  dark,  the 
tables  shrouded,  but  from  a  room  at  the  end  of 
the  hall  came  the  murmur  of  the  nightly  coon- 
can  players.  They  seated  themselves  at  a  table, 
and  his  father  ordered  beer  and  cigars.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  he  had  acknowledged  Anthony's 
[139] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

possession  of  the  discretion  of  maturity,  and  he 
raised  the  stein  to  his  lips  with  the  feeling  that 
it  was  a  sacrament  of  his  manhood,  an  earnest 
and  pledge  of  his  success. 

The  midnight  train  emerged  from  the  gloom  of 
the  station,  passed  through  the  outskirts  of  Eller- 
ton,  detached  rows  of  dark  dwellings,  by  the 
grounds  of  the  Baseball  Association,  its  fence  still 
plastered  with  the  gaudy  circus  posters,  into  the 
dim  fields  and  shining  streams.  Anthony  stood 
on  the  last,  swinging  platform,  gazing  back  at 
the  gloom  that  enveloped  Ellerton,  at  the  place 
where  Hydrangea  House  was  hidden  by  the  hills. 
An  acute  misery  possessed  him — the  unsettled 
manner  of  his  departure  from  Eliza,  her  silence, 
struggled  in  his  thoughts  with  the  attempt  to  real 
ize  the  necessity  of  the  course  he  had  adopted  to 
bring  about  a  final  and  lasting  joy.  He  won 
dered  if  Eliza  would  understand  the  need  for  his 
going;  but,  assured  of  her  wise  sympathy,  he  felt 
that  she  would;  and  a  measure  of  content  settled 
upon  him.  The  engine  swung  about  a  curve,  dis 
appearing  into  the  obscurity  of  a  wood.  "Eliza," 
[140] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

he  cried  aloud,  "Eliza,  be  here  when  I  come  back 
to  you!" 

He  sat  for  the  greater  part  of  an  hour  on  the 
deserted  platform  of  the  junction,  where  signal 
lamps  glistened  on  the  steel  rails  that  vanished 
into  the  night,  into  the  West,  the  inscrutable  fu 
ture.  The  headlight  of  the  massive  locomotive 
flared  unexpectedly,  whitely,  upon  him;  the  en 
gine,  with  a  brief  glimpse  of  a  sanguinary  heart 
of  fire  illuminating  a  sooty  human  countenance, 
gleaming,  liquid  eyeballs,  passed  and  stopped; 
and  Anthony  hastily  mounted  the  train.  He 
made  his  way  through  the  narrow  passage  of  but 
toned,  red  curtains,  and  found  his  place,  where 
he  sank  into  a  weary,  dreamless  sleep. 


[141] 


XXIII 

IN  the  morning  his  was  the  last  berth  made 
up  for  the  day;  the  car,  shaded  against  the 
sun,  was  rolling  slightly,  and  he  braced  himself 
as  he  made  his  way  toward  breakfast.  The  ta 
bles  were  all  occupied;  but,  at  a  carelessly  hos 
pitable  nod,  he  found  a  place  with  two  men. 
They  were,  he  immediately  saw,  Jews.  One  was 
robustly  middle-aged,  with  a  pinkly  smooth  coun 
tenance,  a  slightly  flattened  nose,  and  eyes  as  col 
orless  as  clear  water  in  a  goblet.  He  was  care 
fully  dressed  in  shepherd's  plaid,  with  a  grey  tie 
that  held  a  noticeably  fine  pearl.  His  companion 
was  thin  and  dark,  with  a  heavy  nose  irritated  to 
rawness  by  the  constant  application  of  a  blue  silk 
handkerchief.  The  latter,  Anthony  discovered 
in  the  course  of  the  commonplaces  which  followed, 
was  sycophant  and  henchman  of  the  first — a  never 
failing  source  of  applause  for  the  former's  wit 
ticisms. 

[142] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"How  far  out  are  you  bound?"  queried  the 
owner  of  the  pearl.  Then,  when  Anthony  had 
told  him  his  destination,  "No  business  opportuni 
ties  in  California  for  a  young  man  without  capi 
tal  behind  him;  only  hard  work  and  a  day  la 
borer's  wages.  Nothing  West  but  fruit,  land  and 
politics  on  a  large  scale.  My  chauffeur  at  a  hun 
dred  a  month  does  better  than  eighty  per  cent,  of 
the  young  ones  in  the  West." 

This  information  fell  like  a  dark  cloud  over 
Anthony's  sanguine  hopes  for  a  speedy  and  opu 
lent  return.  A  sense  of  imminent  misfortune 
pressed  upon  him,  a  sudden,  unreasoning  dread 
of  what  might  be  in  store  for  Eliza  and  himself, 
of  the  countless  perils  of  a  protracted  delay.  At 
the  end  of  two  years  he  might  be  no  better  off 
than  he  was  at  present.  His  brother-in-law,  he 
knew,  would  pay  him  only  a  nominal  amount  at 
first.  The  two  years  stretched  out  interminably 
in  his  imagination. 

The  more  prosperous  of  his  companions  se 
lected  a  cigar  from  a  silk  case,  and  cut  it  with  a 
gold  penknife;  they  removed  to  the  smoking  car. 
[143] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"I  drove  a  car  for  a  while,"  Anthony  informed 
them  later,  mingling  the  acidulous  smoke  of  a 
Dulcina  with  the  more  fragrant  clouds  of  Ha- 
bana;  "it  was  a  Challenger  six." 

"Hartmann  here  is  a  director  in  the  Challenger 
factory,"  the  sycophant  told  him.  "The  factory's 
in  our  home  city,  where  we  are  going.  It's  a 
great  car."  Hartmann  examined  Anthony  with 
a  new  and  more  personal  interest.  "Did  you 
like  it?"  he  demanded. 

"It's  all  right,  for  the  price,"  Anthony  as 
sured  him.  "It's  the  most  sporting  looking  car 
on  the  American  market." 

"That's  the  thing,"  the  other  declared  with  sat 
isfaction;  "big  sales  and  a  quick  return  on  in 
vestment.  A  showy  car  is  what  the  public  wants, 
the  engine's  unimportant,  it's  paint  that  counts." 

"Do  you  have  any  radiator  trouble?"  Anthony 
demanded.  The  other  regarded  him  shrewdly. 
"I  run  a  Berliet,"  he  announced.  "I  was  dis 
cussing  a  popular  article."  He  arranged  him 
self  more  comfortably  in  his  leather  chair,  and 
prepared  for  sleep. 

[144] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

Anthony  returned  to  his  place  in  the  coach, 
where  he  brooded  dejectedly  upon  what  he  had 
heard  about  California.  He  thought  of  the  dis 
tance  widening  at  a  dizzy  rate  between  Eliza  and 
himself,  and  was  plunged  into  a  vast  pit  of  lone 
liness  ...  he  had  made  a  terrible  mistake  in 
leaving  her.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  he  had 
deserted  her,  perhaps  she  was  suffering  on  ac 
count  of  him — had  expected  him  to  free  her  from 
an  intolerable  condition.  Again  he  cursed  in  his 
heart  the  prudent  counsel  of  old  men,  the  cold 
sapience  of  the  world,  that  had  betrayed  him, 
that  had  prevailed  over  his  instinct,  his  longing. 


[145] 


XXIV 

AT  lunch  time  he  was  progressing  toward  an 
empty  table  when  Hartmann  waved  him 
imperiously  to  a  place  at  his  side.  "Have  a 
drink,"  he  advised  genially;  "this  is  my  affair." 
Beer  followed  the  initial  cocktail,  and  brandy 
wound  the  meal  to  a  comfortable  conclusion.  A 
Habana  in  the  smoking  car  completed  Anthony's 
bodily  satisfaction. 

"California's  no  place  for  a  young  man  with 
out  capital,"  Hartmann  reiterated;  "you  work 
like  a  dog  for  two  and  a  half  a  day;  no  future." 
He  paused,  allowing  this  to  be  digested,  then: 
"I  have  a  little  plan  to  propose,  you  can  take  it 
or  not — or  perhaps  you  are  not  competent.  My 
chauffeur  is  laid  up  with  a  broken  wrist,  a  matter 
of  a  month  or  more;  how  would  you  like  to  run 
my  car  until  he  returns  ?  Then,  if  you  are  satis 
factory,  you  can  go  into  the  Challenger  factory, 
with  something  ahead  of  you,  a  future.  Or  you 
can  go  on  to  California  .  .  .  say  seventy-five  dol- 
[146] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

lars  richer."  Anthony  shook  his  head  regretfully. 
"Don't  answer  now,"  Hartmann  advised;  "Spring 
City  is  three  hours  off.  Think  it  over;  seventy- 
five  dollars;  a  chance,  if  you  are  handy,  in  the 
factory." 

Anthony  was  suddenly  obsessed  by  the  thought 
that,  at  Spring  City,  he  would  be  only  a  day  re 
moved  from  Eliza.  He  wondered  what  his  father 
would  say  to  this  new  possibility?  At  worst  he 
would  only  be  delayed  in  his  arrival  in  Cali 
fornia,  and  with  seventy-five  dollars  in  conse 
quence.  At  best — the  Challenger  factory :  he  ex 
panded  optimistically  the  opportunities  offered  by 
the  latter.  If  he  could  show  his  father  immediate 
fruits  from  a  change  of  plan,  the  elder,  he  was  cer 
tain,  would  add  his  approval.  In  a  passing  skep 
tical  mood  he  speculated  upon  Hartmann's  mo 
tive  in  this  offer  to  an  entire  stranger;  but  his 
doubts  speedily  vanished — any  irregularity  must 
be  immediately  visible. 

"You  can  make  a  stop-over  on  your  ticket  for 
a  couple  of  days  and  try  it,"  the  other  inter 
jected;  "it  will  cost  you  nothing." 
[147] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

Only  a  day  removed  from  Eliza!  he  would 
write  to  his  father,  his  brother-in-law,  and  ex 
plain!  he  had  decided  that  it  would  do  no  harm 
to  try  it.  "Good! "  the  Jew  exclaimed;  "see  the 
conductor  about  your  ticket.  If  you  decide  to 
remain  you  can  send  for  your  trunk."  He  of 
fered  his  cigar  case  to  his  companion,  but  now 
neglected  to  include  Anthony.  Imperceptibly 
their  relations  had  changed;  Hartmann's  geni 
ality  decreased;  his  colorless  gaze  wandered  in 
differently.  Anthony  found  the  conductor,  and 
arranged  a  stop-over  at  Spring  City.  He  col 
lected  his  belongings;  and,  not  long  after,  he 
stood  on  a  station  platform  beside  his  bag,  watch 
ing  with  sudden  misgivings  the  rear  of  the  train 
he  had  left  disappearing  behind  a  bulk  of  fac 
tories  and  clustered  shanties. 

Hartmann  handed  him  a  card,  with  a  written 
direction  and  address.  "The  garage,"  he  ex 
plained;  "have  the  car  ready  to-morrow  at  nine. 
I'll  allow  you  an  expense  of  five  dollars  until  a 
definite  arrangement." 

Anthony  quickly  found  the  garage — a  struc- 
[148] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

ture  of  iron  and  glass,  with  a  concrete  floor  where 
cars  were  drawn  up  in  glistening  rows.  A  line 
of  chairs  fronted  upon  the  pavement,  occupied 
by  mechanics  in  greasy  overalls,  smarter  chauf 
feurs,  and  garrulous,  nondescript  hangers-on. 
The  foreman  was  within,  busy  with  the  compres 
sion  tanks.  He  was  short  in  stature,  with  a  pale, 
concerned  countenance.  "Fourth  on  the  right 
from  the  front,"  he  directed,  reading  Hartmann's 
card;  "there's  a  bad  shoe  on  the  back.  ...  So 
the  old  man's  ready  for  another  little  trip,"  he 
commented. 

"His  chauffeur  has  a  broken  wrist,"  Anthony 
explained.  "He's  offered  me  the  job  for  a 
month." 

"Wrist  hell !  Hartmann  fired  him,  he  knew  too 
much — about  sprees  with  Kuhn.  He's  a  sharp 
duck;  I'll  bet  he  picked  you  up  outside  Spring 
City." 

"I  met  him  on  the  Sunset  Limited,"  Anthony 
continued;  "I  understood  he  was  a  director  in 
the  Challenger  Motor-Car  Company — " 

"He's  that,  right  enough;  the  rottenest  car  and 
[149] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

shop  in  America ;  they're  so  dam'  mean  they  won't 
provide  their  men  with  drinking  water ;  they  have 
to  bring  labor  from  the  East,  scabs  and  other 
truck."  The  conviction  settled  heavily  upon  An 
thony  that,  after  all,  he  had  made  a  mistake  in 
listening  to  Hartmann,  in  falling  in  with  his  sug 
gestion.  If  there  had  been  another  train  through 
Spring  City  for  California  that  night  he  would 
have  taken  it.  But,  as  there  was  not,  and  he  had 
committed  himself  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  Berliet  car  indicated. 
There  he  took  off  his  coat,  and  busied  himself 
with  replacing  the  damaged  shoe.  When  that 
was  accomplished  the  dusk  had  thickened  to 
evening,  the  suspended  gas  globes  in  the  garage 
had  been  lighted,  and  shone  like  lemon-yellow 
moons  multiplied  in  the  lilac  depths  of  a  mirrored 
twilight. 

He  saw,  across  the  street,  a  creamery,  and,  at 
a  bare  table,  consumed  a  quart  of  milk  and  a 
plate  of  sugared  rusk.  Then,  on  a  chair  in  the 
line  before  the  garage,  he  sat  half  intent  upon 
the  conversation  about  him,  half  considering  the 
[ISO] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

swift  changes  that  had  overtaken  him  in  the  past 
few  days.  His  fingers  closed  upon  Eliza's  letter 
in  his  pocket,  and  he  gazed  at  the  callous  and 
ribald  faces  at  his  side,  he  heard  the  truculent 
laughter,  with  wonderment  that  they  existed  in 
the  same  world  with  her  delicate  beauty.  She 
smiled  at  him,  out  of  his  memory,  over  a  mass  of 
white  bloom,  and  the  present  seemed  like  an  ugly 
dream  from  which  he  must  awake  in  her  pres 
ence.  Or  was  the  other  a  dream,  a  vision  of  im 
material  delight  spread  before  his  wondering 
mind,  and  this  harsh  mirth,  these  mocking  faces, 
Hartmann's  smooth  lies,  the  hateful  reality? 

The  night  deepened,  one  by  one  the  chairs  be 
fore  the  garage  were  deserted,  the  sharp  pound 
ing  of  a  hammer  on  metal  sounded  from  within, 
the  disjointed  measures  of  a  sentimental  song.  A 
sudden  weariness  swept  over  Anthony,  a  distaste 
for  the  task  of  seeking  a  room  through  the  strange 
streets;  and,  arranging  the  cushions  in  Hart 
mann's  car,  he  slept  there  until  morning.  He 
awoke  to  the  flooding  of  the  concrete  floor  with 
a  sheet  of  water  flashing  in  the  crisp  sunlight. 
[151] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  he  made  a  hurried  toilet 
at  a  convenient  faucet,  breakfasting  at  the  cream 
ery. 

Hartmann  appeared  shortly  after  nine:  his 
countenance  glowed  from  a  scented  massage,  his 
yellow  boots  shone  with  restrained  splendor,  and 
a  sprig  of  geranium  was  drawn  through  an 
ironed  buttonhole.  He  nodded  briefly  to  An 
thony,  and  narrowly  watched  the  latter  maneuver 
the  Berliet  from  its  place  in  the  row  onto  the 
street.  They  sped  smoothly  across  town  to  what, 
evidently,  was  the  principal  shopping  thorough 
fare  and  drew  up  before  a  glittering  plate  glass 
window  that  bore  the  chaste  design,  "Hartmann 
&  Company."  Hartmann  prepared  to  descend. 

"I  think  I'll  go  on  West  this  afternoon,"  An 
thony  informed  him. 

Annoyance  was  plainly  visible  upon  the  other's 
countenance.  "I  was  just  congratulating  myself 
on  a  find,"  he  declared;  "you  must  at  least  stay 
with  me  until  I  get  some  one  else."  He  paused; 
Anthony  made  no  comment.  "Now  listen  to 
what  I  will  do,"  he  pronounced  finally;  "if  you 
[152] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

will  stay  with  me  for  a  month  I'll  give  you  a  hun 
dred  dollars  and  your  expenses — it  will  be  clear 
money.  I  ...  I  had  thought  of  taking  a  little 
trip  in  the  car,  I'm  feeling  the  store  a  little,  and  I 
need  a  discreet  man.  Think  it  over — a  hundred 
in  your  pocket,  and  you  may  be  able  to  get  off  in 
three  weeks."  He  left  hurriedly,  without  giving 
Anthony  an  opportunity  for  further  speech.  It 
was  an  alluring  offer,  a  hundred  dollars  secured 
for  the  future,  for  Eliza.  He  speculated  about 
the  prospective  trip,  Hartmann's  wish  to  find  a 
"discreet"  man,  the  foreman's  insinuations.  The 
motive,  however,  didn't  concern  him,  the  wage 
was  his  sole  consideration,  and  that,  he  decided, 
he  could  not  afford  to  lose.  He  whistled  to  a 
newsboy,  and,  studying  the  baseball  scores,  waited 
comfortably  for  his  employer. 

Later  he  drove  Hartmann,  now  accompanied 
by  Kuhn,  out  of  town,  through  a  district  of  sub 
urban  villas,  smooth,  white  roads  and  green 
lawns,  into  the  farmland  and  pasturage  beyond. 
They  finally  stopped  at  an  inn  of  weathered  grey 
stone  set  behind  a  row  of  ancient  elms.  A  woman 
[153] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

was  sitting  on  the  portico,  and  she  rose  and  came 
forward  sinuously  as  the  men  descended  from  the 
motor-car.  Anthony  saw  that  she  had  a  full, 
voluptuous  figure,  lusterless,  yellow  hair,  and 
sleepy  eyes.  Hartmann  patted  her  upon  the 
shoulder,  and  the  three  moved  to  the  portico, 
where  they  sat  conversing  over  a  table  of  whiskies 
and  soda.  Occasional  shrill  bursts  of  laughter, 
gross  terms,  reached  Anthony.  The  woman 
lounged  nonchalantly  in  her  chair;  she  wore  a 
transparent  white  waist,  through  which  was  vis 
ible  a  confused  tracery  of  purple  ribband  and 
frank  rubicund  flesh.  When  the  men  rose,  Hart 
mann  kissed  her.  "Thursday,"  he  reminded 
her;  "shortly  after  three." 

"And  I'll  depend  on  you,"  Kuhn  added,  "a 
good  figger  and  a  loving  disposition.  We  don't 
want  any  dead  ones  on  this  trip." 

"Laura's  all  right,"  she  assured  him.  "She's 
just  ready  for  something  of  this  sort;  she  goes 
off  about  twice  a  year." 

When  they  had  started,  Hartmann  leaned  for 
ward.  "Going  Thursday  .  .  .  that  little  trip  I 
[154] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

spoke  to  you  about.  No  talking,  understand. 
Look  over  the  tires,  get  what  you  think  necessary 
for  five  or  six  hundred  miles. "  He  tended  An 
thony  a  crisp  currency  note.  "Here's  the  five. 
Your  salary  starts  to-morrow." 

That  night  Anthony  wrote  a  letter  of  explana 
tion  to  his  father,  a  note  to  California  in  reference 
to  his  trunk,  and  a  short  communication  to  Eliza. 
He  was  not  certain  that  she  would  receive  it. 
Her  parents,  he  was  convinced,  were  opposed  to 
him — they  were  ignorant  of  the  singleness,  the 
depth,  the  determination,  of  his  love. 


[155] 


XXV 

IT  was  nearly  four,  when,  on  Thursday,  An- 
*  thony  stopped  the  car  before  the  inn  by  the 
elms.  The  woman  with  the  yellow  hair,  accom 
panied  by  a  figure  in  a  shapeless  russet  silk  coat, 
were  waiting  for  them.  The  latter  carried  a 
small,  patent  leather  dressing  case,  and  a  large 
bag  reposed  on  the  portico,  which  Anthony 
strapped  to  the  luggage  rack.  Kuhn,  animated 
by  a  flow  of  superabundant  animal  spirits,  ban 
tered  each  member  of  the  party:  he  gave  Anthony 
a  cigar  that  had  been  slightly  broken,  tipped  off 
Hartmann's  cap,  and,  with  profound  gallantry, 
assisted  the  women  into  the  car. ,  Hartmann  dis 
cussed  routes  over  an  unfolded  map  with  An 
thony;  then,  the  course  laid  out,  they  moved  for 
ward. 

Their  way  led  over  an  old  postroad,  now  be 
tween  walls  and  trees,  dank  and  grey  with  age  and 
dust,  now  rising  steadily  into  a  region  of  bluish 
[156] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

hills.  Scraps  of  conversation  fell  upon  An 
thony's  hearing :  the  woman  in  the  russet  coat,  he 
learned,  was  named  Laura  Dallam.  Kuhn  talked 
incessantly,  and,  occasionally,  she  replied  to  his 
sallies  in  a  cool,  detached  voice.  She  differed  in 
manner  from  the  others,  she  was  a  little  disdain 
ful,  Anthony  discovered.  Once  she  said  sharply, 
"Do  let  me  enjoy  the  country." 

They  slipped  smoothly  through  the  afternoon 
to  the  end  of  day.  The  sun  had  vanished  beyond 
the  hills  when  they  stopped  at  an  inn  on  the  out 
skirts  of  an  undiscovered  town.  It  was  directly 
on  the  road,  and,  built  in  a  flimsy  imitation  of 
an  Elizabethan  hostelry,  had  benches  at  either 
side  of  the  entrance. 

There  Anthony  sat  later,  while,  from  a  bal 
cony  above  him,  fell  the  tones  of  his  employer 
and  his  companions.  He  could  hear  them  clearly, 
distinguish  Hartmann's  heavy  jocularity,  the  yel 
low-haired  woman's  sirupy  voice  and  Laura  Dai- 
lam's  crisp  utterances.  Kuhn's  labored  wit  had 
drooped  with  the  afternoon,  an  accent  of  com 
plaint  had  grown  upon  him.  Occasionally  there 
[157] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

was  a  thin,  clear  tinkle  of  glasses  and  ice.  As  the 
night  deepened,  the  conversation  above  grew 
blurred,  peals  of  inconsequential  laughter  more 
frequent;  a  glass  fell  on  the  balcony  and  broke 
with  a  small,  sudden  explosion.  Some  one — it 
was  the  Dallam  woman,  exclaimed,  "Don't!" 
She  leaned  over  the  railing  above  Anthony's  head, 
and  said  despairingly,  "I  can't  get  drunk!" 
Kuhn  pressed  to  her  side,  and  she  moved  away 
impatiently.  He  became  enraged,  and  they  began 
a  low,  bitter  wrangling.  Finally  Hartmann  in 
sinuated  himself  between  them;  the  two  women 
disappeared  and  Kuhn  complained  aloud  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  had  been  treated. 

"She's  all  right,"  Hartmann  assured  him; 
"you  went  at  it  too  heavy;  take  your  time;  she's 
not  a  flapper  from  the  chorus."  They  tramped 
heavily  across  the  balcony,  whispering  tensely, 
into  the  hotel. 

The  morning  following  they  failed  to  start 

until  past  eleven:     Hartmann's  countenance  was 

pasty  from  the  night's  debauch,  greenish  shadows 

hung  beneath  his  colorless  eyes,  his  mouth  was  a 

[158] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

leaden  line;  the  yellow-haired  woman  was  hag 
gard,  she  looked  older  by  ten  years  than  the  previ 
ous  day.  Kuhn  was  savagely,  morosely,  silent. 
But  Mrs.  Dallam  was  as  fresh,  as  sparkling,  as 
the  morning  itself.  She  nodded  brightly  at  An 
thony  as  she  took  a  seat  forward,  by  his  side.  A 
heavy  veil  was  draped  back  from  her  face,  and 
he  saw  that  it  was  finely-cut;  an  intensely  black 
bang  fell  squarely  across  her  low,  white  forehead, 
beneath  which  eyes  of  a  somber,  velvety  blue  were 
oddly  compelling;  and  against  the  blanched  oval 
of  her  face  her  mouth  was  like  a  print  of  blood. 
It  was  a  potent,  vaguely  disturbing  countenance; 
and,  beneath  the  voluminous  silk  coat,  he  saw  nar 
row  black  slippers  with  carelessly  tied  bows  that, 
stinging  his  imagination,  reminded  him  of  wasps. 
As  he  drove  the  car  he  was  frequently  aware 
of  her  exotic  gaze  resting  speculatively  upon  him. 
On  a  high,  sunny  reach  of  road  there  was  a  shrill 
rush  of  escaping  air,  and  he  found  a  rear  tire 
flat.  Hartmann  and  his  mate  explored  the  road, 
Kuhn  gloomed  aloof,  while  Mrs.  Dallam  seated 
herself  on  -a  nearby  bank,  as  Anthony  replaced  the 
[159] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

inner  tube.  It  was  hot,  and  he  removed  his  coat; 
soon  his  shirt  was  clinging  to  the  rippling,  young 
muscles  of  his  vigorous  torso.  Once,  when  he 
straightened  up  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  his 
brow,  Mrs.  Dallam  caught  his  glance,  and  held 
it  with  «a  slow  smile. 

Their  progress  for  the  day  ended  at  a  small 
hotel  maintained  upon  the  roof  of  a  ridge  of  hills. 
As  the  dusk  deepened  the  valley  beyond  swam 
with  warm,  scattered  lights,  while  above,  in  illimi 
table  space,  gleamed  stars  near,  only  a  few  mil 
lions  of  miles  away,  and  stars  far,  millions  upon 
millions  of  miles  distant. 

The  ground  floor  of  the  hotel  was  divided  by  a 
passage:  on  one  side  the  bar,  and  on  the  other 
a  dining  and  lounging  room,  lit  with  kerosene 
lamps  swung  below  tin  reflectors.  When  An 
thony  was  ready  for  supper  the  others  had  dis 
appeared  above.  He  was  served  by  the  proprie 
tor,  a  short,  rotund  man  with  a  glistening 
red  face  and  hands  like  swollen  pincushions. 
He  breathed  stentoriously  amid  his  exertions, 
muttering  objurgations  in  connection  with  the 
[160] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

name  of  an  absent  servitor,  hopelessly  drunk,  An 
thony  gathered,  in  the  stable. 

A  bell  sounded  sharply  from  above,  and  he  dis 
appeared  abruptly,  shouting  up  the  stair.  Then, 
shortly  after,  he  reappeared  in  the  dining  room 
with  a -tray  bearing  a  pitcher  of  water,  glasses,  and 
a  bottle  labelled  with  the  name  of  a  popular  brand 
of  whiskey.  "Can  you  run  this  up  to  your 
folks?"  he  demanded,  in  a  storm  of  explosive 
breaths.  "I  got  enough  to  stall  three  men  down 
here."  Anthony  balanced  the  tray,  and  moved 
toward  the  stair. 

He  had  stopped  in  the  hallway  to  redispose  his 
burden,  when  he  heard  the  changing  gears  of  a 
second  automobile  without.  He  moved  care 
fully  upward,  aware  of  lowered  voices  at  his  back, 
then  the  sound  of  footsteps  following  him.  He 
turned  as  he  had  been  directed  in  the  hall  above, 
and  knocked  upon  a  closed  door.  Kuhn's  sullen 
voice  bade  him  come  in.  He  had  opened  the  door, 
when,  almost  upsetting  the  tray,  a  small  group  at 
his  back  pushed  him  aside,  and  entered  Hart- 
mann's  room. 

[161] 


XXVI 

THE  flaring  gas  jet  within  shone  on  Hart- 
mann,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  reclining  collar- 
less  on  a  bed,  while  the  yellow-haired  woman,  in 
a  short,  vivid  green  petticoat,  but  otherwise  nor 
mally  garbed,  sat  by  him  twisting  her  fingers  in 
his  hair.  Mrs.  Dallam,  her  waist  open  at  the 
neck,  was  cold-creaming  her  throat,  while  Kuhn 
was  decorating  her  bared  arms  with  pats  of  pink 
powder  from  a  silver-mounted  puff.  He  turned 
at  the  small  commotion  in  the  doorway.  .  .  .  His 
jaw  dropped,  and  his  glabrous  eyes  bulged  in  in 
credulous  dismay.  The  powder  puff  fell  to  the 
floor;  he  wet  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue. 
"Minna! "  he  stammered;  "Minna! " 

The  woman  in  the  door  had  grey  hair  streaked 

and  soiled  with  sallow  white,  and  a  deeply  scored, 

harsh   countenance.     Her   gnarled    hands    were 

tightly  clenched,  and  her  tall,  spare  figure  shook 

[162] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

with  suppressed  excitement  and  emotion.  At  her 
back  were  two  men,  one  unobtrusive,  remarkable 
in  his  lack  of  salient  feature;  the  other  stolidly, 
heavily,  Semitic. 

Hartmann  hastily  scrambled  into  an  upright 
position;  the  woman  at  his  side  gave  vent  to  a 
startled,  slight  scream,  desperately  arranging 
her  scant  draperies;  Mrs.  Dallam,  with  a  stony 
face,  continued  to  rub  cold  cream  into  her  throat. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Kuhn,"  Hartmann  stuttered,  "eve 
rything  can  be  satisfactorily  explained."  The 
woman  he  addressed  paid  not  the  slightest  atten 
tion  to  him,  but,  advancing  into  the  room,  gazed 
with  mingled  hatred  and  curiosity  at  Mrs.  Dallam. 
The  two  women  stood  motionless,  tense,  oblivious 
of  the  others,  in  their  silent,  merciless  battle.  The 
latter  smiled  slightly,  with  coldly-contemptuous 
lips,  at  the  grotesque  figure  before  her:  the  ill- 
fitting  dress  upon  the  wasted  body,  the  hat 
pinned  askew  on  the  thin,  time-stained  hair.  And 
the  other,  painfully  rigid,  worn,  brittle,  gazed  with 
bitter  appraisal  at  the  softly-rounded,  graceful 
figure,  the  mature  youth,  that  mocked  her. 
[163] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"Minna,"  Kuhn  reiterated,  "come  outside, 
won't  you,  I  want  to  see  you  outside.  Tell  her 
to  go  out,  Abbie,"  he  entreated  the  stolid  figure 
at  the  door;  "it  ain't  fit  for  her  to  be  here.  I  will 
see  you  all  down-stairs."  He  laid  a  shaking  hand 
upon  his  wife's  shoulder.  "Come  away,"  he  im 
plored. 

But  still,  apparently  unconscious  of  his  pres 
ence,  she  gazed  at  Mrs.  Dallam. 

"You  gutter-piece!"  she  said  finally;  "you 
thief!" 

Mrs.  Dallam  laughed  easily.  "Steal  that!" 
she  exclaimed,  indicating  Kuhn,  "that  .  .  . 
beetle !  If  it's  any  consolation  to  you — he  hasn't 
put  his  hand  on  me.  It  makes  me  ill  to  be  near 
him.  I  should  be  grateful  if  you'd  take  him 
home." 

"That's  so,  Mrs.  Kuhn,"  Hartmann  inter 
polated  eagerly,  "nothing's  went  on  you  couldn't 
witness,  nothing." 

Tears  stole  slowly  over  the  inequalities  of  Mrs. 
Kuhn's  countenance.  She  trembled  so  violently 
that  the  man  called  Abbie  stepped  forward  and 
[164] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

supported  her.  Now  Kuhn  was  weeping  co 
piously.  "Oh,  Minna!"  he  cried,  "may  I  go 
home  with  you?  may  I  go  now?  These  people 
don't  mean  anything  to  me,  not  like  you  do.  I 
get  crazy  at  times,  and  gotta  have  excitement.  I 
hate  it,"  he  declared;  "but  I  can't  somehow  stand 
out  against  it.  But  you  must  give  me  another 
try.  .  .  .  Why,  I'd  be  nothing  in  the  world  with 
out  you;  I'd  go  down  to  hell  alive  without  you, 
Minna." 

Mrs.  Kuhn  became  unmanageable ;  she  uttered 
a  series  of  short,  gasping  cries,  and  wilted  into 
the  arm  about  her.  "Take  her  out,  Abbie," 
Kuhn  entreated,  "take  her  out  of  this." 

Anthony,  with  the  tray  still  balanced  in  his 
grasp,  stood  aside.  The  man  without  character 
istics  was  making  rapid  notes  in  an  unostentatious 
wallet.  Then  Mrs.  Kuhn,  followed  by  her  hus 
band  and  the  third,  disappeared  into  the  hall. 

"Shut     the     door,"     Hartmann     commanded 

sharply;  "and  give  me  a  drink."     Anthony  set 

the  tray  on  a  table.     "God!"  the  yellow-haired 

woman  ejaculated,  "me  too."     Mrs.  Dallam  re- 

[165] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

turned  to  the  mirror,  and  surveyed  the  effects  of 
the  cold  cream.  With  an  expression  of  distaste 
she  brushed  the  marks  of  the  powder  from  her 
arm.  "The  beetle ! "  she  repeated. 

"Minna  Kuhn  won't  bring  action,"  Hartmann 
declared,  with  growing  confidence;  "she'll  take 
him  back;  nothing  will  come  out."  The  other 
woman  drank  deeply;  a  purplish  flush  mantled 
her  full  countenance.  A  strand  of  metallic  hair 
slipped  over  her  eyes.  "Let  her  talk,"  she  as 
severated;  "we're  Bohemians."  She  clasped 
Hartmann  to  her  ample  bosom. 

Mrs.  Dallam  moved  toward  the  half  opened 
door  to  the  room  beyond.  "Bring  in  the  pitcher 
of  water,  Anthony,"  she  directed.  He  followed 
her  with  the  water,  and  she  bolted  the  door  behind 
them.  The  door  to  the  hall  was  closed  too.  She 
stopped  and  smiled  at  him  with  narrowed,  enig 
matic  eyes.  The  subtle  force  of  her  being  swept 
tingling  over  him.  She  laid  her  hand,  warm,  pal 
pitatingly  alive,  upon  his. 

"The  swine,"  she  said;  "how  did  we  get  into 
this,  you  and  I?" 

[166] 


XXVII 

THE  patent  leather  dressing  case  lay  open 
on  a  bureau,  spilling  a  cascade  of  ivory 
toilet  implements,  a  severely  plain  black  dinner 
gown  lay  limp,  dully  shimmering,  over  the  back 
of  a  chair,  and,  on  the  bed,  a  soft,  white  heap  of 
undergarments  gave  out  a  seductive  odor  of  lav 
ender.  "Cigarettes  in  the  leather  box,"  she  indi 
cated;  "take  some  outside."  A  screened  door 
opened  upon  a  boxlike  balcony,  cut  into  the  angle 
of  the  roof;  and  Anthony,  aware  of  the  warm 
weight  of  a  guiding  arm,  found  himself  upon  it. 
He  seated  himself  on  the  railing  and  lit  a  ciga 
rette.  He  must  go  in  a  minute,  he  thought. 

The  lights  had  vanished  from  the  valley,  at  his 
back  the  risen  moon  dimmed  the  stars,  turned 
the  leaves  silver  grey.  A  wan  ray  fell  upon  a 
clump  of  bushes  below — lilacs,  but  the  blooms  had 
wilted,  gone.  The  screen  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Dallam  was  at  his  side;  she  sank  into  a  chair, 
[167] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

the  rosy  blur  of  a  cigarette  in  her  fingers;  she 
wore  a  loose  wrap  of  deep  green  silk,  open  at  her 
throat  upon  the  white  web  beneath ;  in  the  obscur 
ity  her  eyes  were  as  black,  as  lusterless,  as  ebony, 
her  mouth  was  a  purple  stain. 

She  smoked  silently,  gazing  into  the  night.  He 
would  go  now,  he  decided,  and  moved  from  his 
place  on  the  rail.  But  with  clinging  fingers  she 
caught  his  wrist,  reproachfully  lifting  a  velvety 
gaze.  "I  will  not  be  left  alone,"  she  declared. 
"I  simply  must  have  some  one  with  me  ...  you, 
or  I  will  get  despondent.  You  are — no,  I  won't 
say  young,  that  would  make  you  cross;  you  are 
like  that  fabulous  fountain  the  Spaniards  hunted 
in  Florida:  I  want  to  drink  deep,  deep." 

Anthony's  resolution  wavered;  it  was  early;  it 
pleased  him  that  so  fine  a  creature  should  desire 
his  presence;  an  unhappy  note  in  her  voice  moved 
him  to  pity.  She  was  lonely  and  so  was  he ;  why 
should  they  not  support  each  other?  He  leaned 
close  to  her  upon  the  sloping  roof.  She  talked 
little ;  she  laughed  once,  a  low,  silvery  peal  whose 
echo  ran  up  and  down  his  spine. 
[168] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

They  heard  a  servant  closing  the  shutters,  the 
doors,  below  them,  and  the  sound  linked  An 
thony  to  Mrs.  Dallam  in  a  feeling  of  pervading 
intimacy.  She  rose,  and  stood  pressed  against 
his  side,  and  his  heart  beat  instantly  unsteady. 
The  night  grew  strangely  oppressive,  there  was  a 
roll  of  distant,  muffled  thunder;  he  turned  to  her 
with  a  commonplace  about  the  heat,  when 
her  arms  went  about  his  neck,  and  she  kissed 
him  full,  slowly,  upon  the  lips.  Subcon 
sciously  he  held  her  supple  body  to  him.  She 
leaned  back  against  his  arms,  her  eyes  shut  and 
lips  parted.  A  terrible  and  brute  tyranny  of  de 
sire  welled  up  within  him,  sweeping  away  every 
vestige  of  control,  of  memory.  The  sky  whirled 
in  his  vision,  the  substantial  world  vanished  in  a 
smother  of  flaming  mists. 

Then  he  released  her  so  suddenly  that  she  fell 
against  the  railing,  recovering  her  poise  with  diffi 
culty.  Anthony  stumbled  back,  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  brow.  "What  .  .  .  what  damned  per 
fume's  on  you?"  he  demanded  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  apprehension. 

[169] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"None  at  all,"  she  assured  him,  "I  never  .  .  . 
why,  Anthony,  are  you  ill?" 

Wave  after  wave  of  sweetness  enveloped  him, 
choking,  nauseating,  stinging  his  eyes,  extinguish 
ing  the  fire  within  him,  turning  the  lust  to  ashes. 
He  too  supported  himself  upon  the  rail,  and  his 
gaze  fell  below,  to  the  bushes.  Was  it  the  moon 
light,  or  were  they,  where  they  had  been  bare  a 
few  minutes  before,  now  covered  with  great  misty 
masses  of  lilacs?  The  perfume  of  the  flowers 
came  up  to  him  breath  on  breath:  he  could  see 
them  clearly  now.  .  .  .  White  lilacs ! 

An  overwhelming  panic  swept  over  him,  a  sud 
den  dread  of  his  surroundings,  of  the  silken  figure 
of  the  woman  before  him.  He  must  get  away. 
He  pushed  her  roughly  aside,  swung  back  the 
screen  door,  and  clattered  through  the  room  and 
down  the  stairs.  He  fumbled  for  a  moment  with 
a  bolted  door,  and  then  was  outside,  free.  With 
out  hesitancy  he  fled  into  the  night,  the  secretive 
shadows.  He  ran  until  he  literally  fell,  with 
bursting  lungs  and  shaking,  powerless  knees,  upon 
a  bank. 

[170] 


XXVIII 

THE  hotel  was  lost;  the  silence,  the  peace  of 
nature,  unbroken.  A  drowsy  flutter  of 
wings  stilled  in  a  hedge.  The  moon  sailed  be 
hind  a  cloud  that  drooped  low  upon  the  earth,  and 
great,  slow  drops  of  rain  fell  to  a  continuous  and 
far  reverberation.  They  struck  coolly  upon  An 
thony's  face,  pattered  among  the  grass,  dropped 
with  minute  explosions  of  dust  upon  the  road. 
The  shower  passed,  the  cloud  dissolved,  and  the 
crystal  flood  of  light  fell  once  more  into  the  cup 
of  the  valley. 

It  spread  like  a  balm  over  Anthony:  Hart- 
mann,  Mrs.  Dallam,  the  weeping  face  of  Mrs. 
Kuhn,  were  like  painted  figures  in  a  distasteful 
act  upon  which  he  had  turned  his  back,  from 
which  he  had  gone  forth  into  the  supreme  spec 
tacle  of  the  spheres,  the  presence  of  Eliza  Dreen. 
Every  atom  thrilled  with  the  thought  of  her. 
"Oh,  my  very  dear,"  he  whispered  to  the  sleeping 
[171] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

birds,  the  dead,  white  disk  of  the  moon:  "I  will 
come  back  to  you  .  .  .  good." 

After  the  rain  the  night  was  like  a  damp,  sweet 
veil  upon  his  face;  the  few  stars  above  him  were 
blurred  as  though  seen  through  tears ;  the  horizon 
burned  in  a  circle  of  flickering,  ruddy  light.  He 
took  up  his  way  once  more  over  the  soft  folds 
of  the  road;  now,  accustomed  to  the  dark,  he 
could  distinguish  the  smooth  pebbles  by  the  way, 
separate,  grey  blades  of  grass.  He  walked  buoy 
antly,  tirelessly,  weaving  on  the  loom  of  the  dim 
miles  mingled  visions  of  future  and  past,  domi 
nated  by  the  serene  presence  of  Eliza. 

He  felt  in  a  pocket  the  wallet  containing  his 
ticket  to  California  and  the  generous  sum  added 
by  his  father.  There  must  be  no  more  delay  in 
arriving  at  his  western  destination!  His  excur 
sion  with  Hartmann  had  been  a  grave  error;  he 
saw  it  clearly  now,  one  of  those  faults — so  fatally 
easy  for  him  to  commit — which,  if  his  life  were 
to  spell  success,  if  he  were  to  come  finally  into 
his  heritage  of  joy,  he  must  scrupulously  avoid. 
In  the  future  he  would  drive  directly,  safely,  to- 
[172] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

ward  his  goal;  he  would  become  part  of  that 
orderly  pattern  of  life  plotted  in  streets  and  staid 
occupations:  at  the  end  of  day  he  would  return 
to  his  small,  carefully-tended  garden  to  weed  and 
water,  and  sit  with  Eliza  on  his  portico — a  re 
spectable,  an  authentic  member  of  society.  On 
Sunday  morning  they  would  go  to  the  Episcopal 
Church,  they  would  join  the  somber,  festively 
garbed  procession  moving  toward  the  faint  thun 
der  of  the  organ.  And  at  dinner  he  would 
carve  the  roast.  Thus,  quietly,  they  would  grow 
old,  grey,  together.  They  would  have  a  number 
of  children — all  girls,  he  decided. 

Imperceptibly  the  morning  was  born  about  him, 
faint  shadows  grew  under  the  hedges,  the  sweet, 
querulous  note  of  a  robin  sounded  from  the  spark 
ling  sod.  A  wind  stirred,  as  immaculate,  as 
dewly  fresh,  as  though  it  were  the  first  breath 
blown  upon  a  new  world  of  virginal  and  lyric 
beauty.  The  molten  gold  of  the  sun  welled  out 
of  the  east  and  spilled  over  the  wooden  hills  and 
meadows;  the  violet  mists  drawn  over  the  swales 
and  streams  dissolved ;  Anthony  met  a  boy  driving 
cows  to  pasture. 

[173] 


XXIX 

HE  rapidly  overtook  a  bent  and  doggedly 
^^^  tramping  figure;  no  common  wanderer, 
he  recognized,  as  he  drew  nearer.  The  other's 
decent  suit  was  eminently  presentable,  his  felt  hat 
brushed,  his  shoes  comparatively  new.  He 
turned  upon  Anthony  a  countenance  as  expres 
sionless,  as  darkly-stained,  as  a  chipped  and 
rusted  effigy  of  iron;  deep  lines  fell  back  across  the 
dingy  cheeks;  his  lipless  mouth  was,  apparently, 
another  such  line;  and  his  eyes,  deeply  sunk  in 
the  skull,  were  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man.  Yet  they 
were  not  blind ;  they  saw. 

He  halted,  and  surveyed  Anthony  with  a  low 
ered,  searching  curiosity,  clenching  with  a  strained 
and  surprising  force  the  knob  of  a  black  stick. 
Anthony  met  his  scrutiny  with  the  salutation  of 
youth  and  the  road;  but  the  other  made  no  reply; 
his  countenance  was  as  blank  as  though  no  word 
had  been  spoken.  Then  a  sudden  flicker  of  hot 
[174] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

light  burned  in  the  dull  depths  of  his  gaze,  his 
worn  face  quivered  with  a  swift  malignancy,  an 
energy  of  suspicion,  of  hatred,  that  touched  An 
thony's  heart  with  a  cold  finger  of  fear. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  demanded,  his  entire 
being  strained  in  an  agony  of  attention. 

Anthony  informed  him  with  scrupulous  exacti 
tude. 

He  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  doubt  Anthony's 
identity;  then  the  fire  died,  his  eyes  grew  blank; 
his  grasp  relaxed  on  the  stick,  and,  bent,  dogged, 
he  continued  on  his  way. 

The  repellent  contraction  of  Anthony's  heart 
expanded  in  a  light  and  careless  curiosity,  youth 
ful  contempt  mingled  with  the  gayety  of  his 
morning  mood,  and  he  hastened  his  steps  until  he 
had  again  overtaken  his  inquisitor. 

"That's  a  good  cane  you've  got,"  he  observed 
of  the  stout  shaft  and  rounded  head. 

Its  owner  grasped  it  by  the  lower  end,  and 
swung  the  head  against  his  hand.  "Lead,"  he 
pronounced  somberly.  "It  would  crumble  your 
skull  like  an  egg." 

[175] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

Again  fear  stirred  vaguely  in  Anthony :  the  en 
tire  absence  of  emotion  in  the  sanguinary,  the 
dull,  matter-of-fact  voice  were  inhuman,  tainted 
with  madness;  the  total  detachment  of  those  de 
liberate  words  had  been  appalling. 

"I  thought,"  he  continued,  "that  you  might 
have  been  Alfred  Lukes,  but  you're  too  young." 
As  he  pronounced  that  name  his  grasp  tightened 
whitely  about  the  lead  knob.  The  conviction 
seized  Anthony  that  it  was  fortunate  he  was  not 
the  individual  in  question. 

"You  want  Alfred?"  he  asked  in  an  attempted 
jocularity. 

"He  murdered  my  boy,"  the  other  answered 
simply.  "Him  and  another.  They  asked  James 
into  a  boat  to  go  fishing.  Boys  will  always  go 
fishing;  he  was  only  eleven."  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  produced  a  small  pack 
age  folded  in  oiled  silk.  It  proved  to  be  a  der 
ringer,  of  an  old-fashioned  model,  with  two,  short 
black  barrels,  one  atop  the  other.  "Loaded,"  he 
said,  "to  put  against  his  face."  Then  he  re- 
wrapped  the  weapon  and  returned  it  to  its  place 
[176] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

of  concealment.  "I've  been  looking  for  Alfred 
Lukes  for  nineteen  years,"  he  recommenced  his 
dogged  progress,  "in  trains  and  saloons  and 
stores.  Nineteen  years  ago  James  was  found  in 
the  river."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then, 
"One  eye  was  torn  out,"  he  added  in  his  weary 
voice.  He  turned  his  blank  and  terrible  gaze 
upon  Anthony,  upon  the  sparkling  morning.  The 
derringer  dragged  slightly  upon  his  coat,  the  stick 
— that  stick  which  could  crush  a  skull  like  an  egg 
— made  its  trailing  signature  in  the  dust.  A 
mingled  loathing  and  pity  took  possession  of 
Anthony;  he  recoiled  from  the  corroding  and  se 
cret  horror  of  that  nineteen  year  Odyssey  of  a 
torturing  and  impotent  spirit  of  revenge,  from  the 
infinite  black  tide  that  had  swept  over  the  stoop 
ing  figure  at  his  side,  the  pitiless  memory  that 
had  destroyed  its  sanity. 

"It  was  on  Sunday;  James  had  on  his  nice 
blue  suit  and  a  new,  red  silk  necktie  .  .  .  they 
found  it  knotted  about  his  throat  ...  as  tight 
as  a  big  man  could  make  it." 

A  sudden  impulse  overcame  Anthony  to  run, 
[177] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

to  leave  far  behind  him  this  sinister,  animated 
speck  on  the  sunny  road,  under  the  dusty  branches 
burdened  with  ripening  fruit,  thrilling  with  the 
bubbling  notes  of  birds.  But,  as  his  gaze  fell 
again  upon  his  companion,  he  saw  only  an  old 
man,  gaunt  with  suffering,  hurrying  toward  the 
noon.  A  deep,  cleansing  compassion  vanquished 
the  dread,  and,  spontaneously,  he  spoke  of  his 
own  lighter  affairs,  of  California,  his  destina 
tion. 

"I  have  never  been  west  of  Chicago,"  the  other 
interposed.  "I  hadn't  the  money;  the  walking  is 
dreadfully  hard ;  the  sun  on  those  plains  hurt  my 
head.  Do  you  suppose  James  Lukes  is  in  Cali 
fornia?"  he  asked,  pausing  momentarily  in  his 
rapid  shamble. 

In  his  careless,  youthful  egotism,  Anthony  ig 
nored  the  query.  He  wondered  aloud  where  he 
could  board  a  through  train  to  the  West. 

"Have  you  got  your  ticket?" 

Anthony  tapped  complacently  upon  the  pocket 
that  held  the  wallet.  They  were  walking  now 
through  a  wood  that  flowed  to  the  rim  of  the 
[178] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

road,  and  a  turn  hid  either  vista.  A  stream  ran 
through  the  rank  greenery  of  the  bottom,  crossed 
by  a  bridge  of  loosely  bolted  planks.  Anthony 
paused,  intent  upon  the  brown,  sliding  water  be 
neath  him,  the  minute  minnows  balancing  against 
the  stream.  In  that  closed  place  of  broken  light 
the  cool  stillness  was  profound.  The  stream  fled 
past  its  weeds  without  a  gurgle,  the  leaves  hung 
motionless,  as  though  they  had  been  stamped  from 
metal  ...  he  might  have  been,  with  his  compan 
ion,  within  a  charmed  circle  of  everlasting  tran 
quillity.  Then: 

"I  wonder  if  Alfred  Lukes  is  in  California?" 
the  latter  resumed;  "I've  never  got  there,  the  fare 
.  .  .  too  expensive,  the  sun  hurt  my  head."  An 
thony  lit  a  Dulcina,  and  expelled  a  cloud  of  blue 
smoke  that  rose  compactly  in  the  motionless  air. 
"California,"  he  repeated,  sunk  in  thought;  "I 
wonder — " 

"California's  a  big  place,"  Anthony  hazarded. 

"If  he  was  there  I'd  find  him."  Then,  in  his 
mechanical  and  dispassionate  voice,  he  cursed  Al 
fred  Lukes  with  the  utmost  foulness.  One 
[179] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

heated  word,  the  slightest  elevation  of  his  even 
tones,  would  have  made  the  performance  human, 
intelligent,  but  the  deadly  monotony,  the  imper 
sonal  accents,  were  as  harrowing  as  though  a 
mummy  had  ground  out  of  its  shrunken  and  em 
balmed  interior  a  recital  of  prehistoric  hatred  and 
wrong;  it  resembled  a  phonograph  record  of  in 
calculable  depravity.  He  stood  beyond  the 
bridge,  resting  upon  his  stick,  with  his  unmoved 
face  turned  toward  Anthony.  His  hat  cast  a  deep 
shade  over  his  eyes ;  but,  below,  in  a  wanton  patch 
of  sunlight,  his  lipless  mouth  trembled  greyly. 

"California,"  he  repeated  still  again,  then,  "I 
must  get  there."  He  shifted  his  hand  lower  upon 
the  stick,  and  moved  nearer  to  Anthony  by  a  step ; 
the  patch  of  sunlight  shifted  up  to  his  hat  and 
fled. 

"You  could  try  the  freight  cars,"  Anthony  sug 
gested.  The  stooping,  neatly-brushed  figure,  the 
stony  countenance,  had  become,  in  an  intangible 
manner,  menacing,  obscurely  dangerous.  The 
fingers  were  drawn  like  a  claw  about  the  club. 
Then  the  arm  relaxed,  he  seemed  to  shrink  into 
[180] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

hopeless  resignation.  Beyond  the  leafy  arcade 
Anthony  could  now  see  the  countryside  spread 
out  in  sunny  fields,  fleecy,  white  clouds  shifting 
in  the  sea  of  blue.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a  great  flame 
shot  up  before  his  eyes,  a  stunning  shock  fell 
upon  his  head,  and  the  flame  went  out  in  a  whirl 
ing  darkness  that  swept  like  a  black  sea  over  a 
continent  of  intolerable  pain.  He  heard,  as  if 
from  an  immense  distance,  a  thin  voice  pronounce 
the  single  word,  "California." 


[181] 


XXX 

A  GRIPPING  wave  of  nausea  recalled  An 
thony  to  consciousness ;  a  deathly  sickness 
spreading  from  the  pit  of  his  stomach  through  his 
entire  being;  his  prostrate  head,  seeming  stripped 
of  its  skull,  was  tortured  by  the  dragging  fronds 
of  the  ferns  among  which  he  lay.  He  sat  up 
dizzily.  Through  the  leafy  opening  the  fleeting 
forms  of  the  clouds  shifted  over  the  sunny  hills. 
The  stream  slipped  silently  through  the  grass. 
He  staggered  down  the  slight  incline,  and,  falling 
forward  upon  the  ground,  let  the  water  flow  over 
his  throbbing  head.  The  cool  shock  revived  him, 
and  he  washed  away  a  dark,  clotted  film  from  his 
forehead  and  cheek. 

His  wallet,  with  his  ticket  to  California  and 

store  of  money  were  gone.     He  started  in  instant, 

unsteady  pursuit  of  the  man  who  had  struck  him 

down  and  robbed  him.     But,  at  the  edge  of  the 

[182] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

wood  he  paused — how  long  had  he  lain  among 
the  ferns?  the  sun  was  now  high  over  his  head, 
the  morning  lapsed,  the  other  might  have  had 
three,  four  hours'  start.  He  might  now  be  en 
trained,  bound  for  California,  searching  for  Al 
fred  Lukes.  A  sudden  weakness  forced  him  to 
sit  at  the  roadside ;  he  lost  consciousness  again  for 
a  moment.  Then,  summoning  his  youth,  his  vi 
tality,  he  rose,  and  walked  unsteadily  in  search  of 
assistance. 

He  had  proceeded  an  intolerable  mile,  wiping 
away  a  thin  trickle  of  blood  that  persisted  in 
crawling  into  his  eye,  when  he  saw  a  low  roof 
amid  a  tangle  of  greenery.  He  stopped  with  a 
sobbing  breath  of  relief.  He  was  delirious,  he 
thought,  for  peering  at  him  through  the  leaves  he 
saw  the  countenance  and  beautiful,  bare  body  of 
a  child,  as  dark  and  tense  as  bronze.  A  cloud  of 
black  hair  overhung  a  face  vivid  as  a  flower;  her 
crimson  lips  trembled;  then,  with  a  startled  cry, 
the  figure  vanished. 

He  made  his  way  with  difficulty  over  a  short 
path,  overgrown  with  vines  and  twisted  branches, 
[183] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

and  came  abruptly  upon  a  low,  white  house  and 
wide,  opened  door.  An  aged  and  shapeless 
woman  sat  on  a  chair  without  a  back,  cutting 
green  beans  into  a  bright  tin  basin.  When  she 
saw  him  she  dropped  the  pan  with  a  clatter,  and 
an  unfamiliar  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"I've  been  hurt,"  Anthony  explained;  "knocked 
silly  and  robbed." 

"Gina!"  she  called  excitedly;  "Dio  mio! 
Gina!"  A  young  woman,  large  and  loosely 
molded,  with  a  lusty  baby  clasped  to  her  bared 
breast,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  When  she  saw 
Anthony  she  dropped  the  baby  into  the  elder's 
arms.  "Poverino!"  she  cried;  "come  in  the 
house,  little  mister."  She  caught  him  by  the  arm, 
almost  lifting  him  over  the  doorstep  into  a  cool, 
dark  interior.  He  had  a  brief  glimpse  of  drying 
vegetables  strung  from  the  ceiling,  of  a  waxen 
image  of  the  virgin  in  faded  pink  silk  finery 
against  the  wall;  then,  with  closed  eyes,  he  re 
laxed  into  the  charge  of  soothing  and  skilled  fin 
gers.  His  head  rested  on  a  maternal  arm  while 
a  soft  bandage  was  fixed  about  his  forehead. 
[184] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"Ecco!"  she  ejaculated,  her  ministration  suc 
cessful.  She  led  him  to  a  rude  couch  upon  the 
floor,  and  gently  insisted  upon  his  lying  down. 
He  attempted  to  thank  her,  but  she  laid  her  large, 
capable  hand  over  his  mouth,  and  he  sank  into  an 
exhausted,  semi-conscious  rest.  Once  she  bent 
over  him,  dampening  the  bandage,  once  he  saw, 
against  the  light  of  the  door,  the  shape,  slim  and 
beautiful  as  an  angel,  of  the  child.  Outside  a 
low,  liquid  murmur  of  voices  continued  without  a 
break,  strange  and  quieting. 

He  slept,  and  woke  up  refreshed,  strengthened. 
The  dusk  had  thickened  in  the  room,  the  strings 
of  vegetables  were  lost  in  the  shadows,  a  dim  oil 
lamp  cast  a  feeble  glow  on  rude  walls.  He  lay 
motionless  for  a  few,  delightful  seconds,  folded  in 
absolute  peace,  beneficent  quietude.  The  amaz 
ing  idea  struck  him  that,  perhaps,  he  had  died, 
and  that  this  was  the  eternal  tranquillity  of  the 
hymn  books,  and  he  started  vigorously  to  his  feet 
in  an  absurd  panic.  The  homely  figure  of  a  man 
entering  dispelled  the  illusion — he  was  a  common 
place  Italian,  one  of  the  multitude  who  labored  in 
[185] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

the  ditches  of  the  country,  stood  aside  in  droves 
from  the  tracks  as  trains  whirled  past. 

"What  hit  your  head?"  he  asked,  his  mobile 
face  displaying  sympathetic  interest,  concern. 

"A  leaded  stick,"  Anthony  explained.  "I  was 
knocked  out,  robbed." 

"Birbanti!"  he  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  An 
thony's  shoulder.  "You  feel  better  now,  gia?" 
The  latter,  confused  by  such  open  attention,  shook 
the  hand  from  its  friendly  grip.  "He  was  crazy," 
he  awkwardly  explained;  "and  looking  for  a  man 
who  had  killed  his  son ;  he  wanted  to  get  to  Cali 
fornia  and  I  told  him  I  had  a  ticket  west." 

The  laborer  led  Anthony  to  a  room  where  a 
rude  table  was  spread  with  homely  fare — a  great, 
rough  loaf  of  bread,  a  deep  bowl  of  steaming, 
green  soup,  flakey  white  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of 
purple  wine.  An  open  door  faced  the  western 
sky,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  warm  after 
glow;  it  hung  like  a  shining  veil  over  the  man, 
the  still,  maternal  countenance  of  the  woman,  like 
an  aureole  about  the  baby  now  sleeping  against 
her  breast,  and  graced  the  russet  countenance  of 
[186] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

an  aged  peasant.  The  child  that  Anthony  had 
seen  first,  now  in  a  scant  white  slip,  seemed  dipped 
in  the  gold  of  dreams. 

As  he  consumed  the  savory  soup,  the  creamy 
cheese  and  wine,  the  scene  impressed  him  as 
strangely  significant,  familiar.  He  dismissed  an 
idle  effort  of  memory  in  order  to  consider  the  un 
fortunate  aspect  assumed  by  his  immediate  af 
fairs.  Concerning  one  thing  he  was  determined 
— he  would  ask  his  father  to  assist  him  no  further 
toward  his  western  destination.  He  must  him 
self  pay  for  the  initial  error,  together  with  all  its 
consequences,  of  having  followed  Hartmann: 
California  was  his  object,  he  would  not  write  to 
Ellerton  until  his  westward  progress  was  once 
more  assured. 

Two  courses  were  open  to  him — he  could 
"beat"  his  way,  getting  meals  when  and  how  he 
was  able,  riding,  when  possible,  on  freight  cars, 
doing  casual  jobs  on  the  way.  That  he  dismissed 
in  favor  of  a  second,  which  in  the  end,  he  judged, 
would  prove  more  speedy.  He  would  make  his 
way  to  the  nearest  city,  find  employment  in  a 
[187] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

public  or  private  garage  as  chauffeur  or  me 
chanic,  and,  in  a  month  at  most,  have  the  money 
necessary  for  the  continuation  of  his  journey. 

The  household  conversed  vigorously  in  their 
native  idiom,  giving  his  thoughts  full  freedom. 
The  glow  in  the  west  faded,  sank  from  the  room, 
but,  suddenly,  he  recognized  the  familiar  quality 
of  his  surroundings.  It  resembled  a  picture  of 
the  Holy  Family  on  the  wall  of  his  mother's 
room;  the  bare  interior  was  the  same,  the  rugged 
features  of  Joseph  the  carpenter,  the  brooding 
beauty  of  Mary.  He  almost  laughed  aloud  at 
the  absurd  comparison  of  the  exalted  scene  of 
Christ's  infancy  with  this  commonplace  but 
kindly  group,  the  laborer  with  soiled  and  callous 
hands  and  winestained  mouth,  the  material  young 
woman  with  the  string  of  cheap  blue  beads. 

The  meal  at  an  end  the  chairs  were  pushed 
back  and  the  old  woman  noisily  assembled  the 
dishes.  Anthony's  head  throbbed  and  burned. 
In  passing,  the  mother's  fingers  rested  upon  his 
brow.  "Not  too  hot,"  she  nodded  contentedly. 

A  consultation  followed.  Anthony  might  re- 
[188] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

main  there  for  the  night;  or,  if  he  insisted,  he 
might  drive  into  the  city  with  "Nono,"  who  left 
in  a  few  hours  with  a  wagonload  of  greens  for 
the  morning  market.  He  chose  the  latter,  with  a 
clumsy  expression  of  gratitude,  impatient  to  re 
sume  active  efforts  in  his  rehabilitation  in  his  own 
mind. 

"Niente! "  they  disclaimed  in  chorus. 


[189] 


XXXI 

HE  fell  into  an  instant  slumber  on  the  hos 
pitable  heap  in  the  corner,  and  was  awak 
ened  while  it  was  still  dark.  In  the  flicker  of  the 
oil  lamp  the  old  man's  face  swam  vaguely  against 
the  night.  Without  the  wagon  was  loaded,  a 
drooping  horse  insecurely  harnessed  into  patched 
shafts.  The  world  was  a  still  space  of  blue 
gloom,  of  indefinite  forms  suspended  in  the  hush 
of  color,  sound;  it  seemed  to  be  spun  out  of 
shadows  like  cobwebs,  out  of  vapors,  scents.  A 
pale,  hectic  glow  on  the  horizon  marked  the  city. 
They  ambled  noiselessly,  slowly,  forward,  under 
the  vague  foliage  of  trees.  There  was  a  glint  of 
light  in  a  passing  window,  the  clatter  of  milk 
pails;  a  rooster  crowed,  thin  and  clear  and  tri 
umphant;  on  a  grassy  slope  by  the  road  they  saw 
a  smoldering  fire,  recumbent  forms. 

They  entered  the  soiled  and  ragged  outskirts 
of  the  city — isolated  ranks  of  hideous,  boxlike 
[190] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

dwellings  amid  raw  stretches  of  clay,  rank  under 
growth.  The  horse's  hoofs  rang  on  a  bricked 
pave,  and  the  city  surged  about  them.  Overhead 
the  elevated  tracks  made  a  confused,  black  trac 
ing  rippling  with  the  red  and  white  and  green 
fire  of  signals.  A  gigantic  truck,  drawn  by 
plunging  horses  whose  armored  hoofs  were  ringed 
in  pale  flame,  passed  with  a  shattering  uproar  of 
its  metallic  load.  A  train  thundered  above  with 
a  dolorous  wail,  showering  a  lurid  trail  of  sparks 
into  the  sky,  out  of  which  a  thick  soot  sifted  down 
upon  the  streets.  On  either  hand  the  blank  walls 
of  warehouses  shut  in  the  pavements  deserted  save 
for  a  woman's  occasional,  chalky  countenance  in 
the  frosty  area  of  the  arc  lights,  or  a  drunkard 
lurching  laboriously  over  the  gutters.  The  fev 
erish  alarm  of  firebells  sounded  from  a  distant 
quarter.  A  heavy  odor  of  stagnant  oil,  the  fetid 
smoke  of  flaring  chimneys,  settled  over  Anthony, 
and  gratefully  he  recalled  the  pastoral  peace  of 
the  house  he  had  left — the  house  hidden  in  its 
tangled  verdure  amid  the  scented  space  of  the 
countryside. 

[191] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

They  stopped  finally  before  a  shed  open  upon 
the  street,  where  bluish-orange  flames,  magnified 
by  tin  reflectors,  illuminated  busy  groups.  Sil 
very  fish  with  exposed  carmine  entrails  were 
ranged  in  rows ;  the  crisp,  green  spoil  of  the  coun 
tryside  was  spread  in  the  stalls — the  silken  stalks 
of  early  onions,  the  creamy  pink  of  carrots,  wine- 
red  beets;  rosy  potatoes  were  heaped  by  cool, 
crusty  cantaloupe,  the  vert  pods  of  peas,  silvery 
spinach  and  waxy,  purple  eggplant.  Over  all 
hung  the  delicate  aroma  of  crushed  mint,  the  faint, 
sweet  tang  of  scarlet  strawberries,  the  spicy  fra 
grance  of  simple  flowers — of  cinnamon  pinks  and 
heliotrope  and  clover. 

Anthony  assisted  the  other  to  transfer  his  load 
to  part  of  a  stall  presided  over  by  a  woman  with 
bare,  powerful  elbows,  shouting  in  a  boisterous 
voice  in  perfect  equality  with  her  masculine  neigh 
bors. 

High  above  the  dawn  flushed  the  sky;  the  flares 
dimmed  from  a  source  of  light  to  mere  colored 
fans,  and  were  extinguished.  Early  buyers  ar 
rived  at  the  market  with  baskets  and  pushcarts. 
[192] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

Anthony  remained  at  the  old  man's  side;  it  was 
too  early  to  start  in  search  of  work;  and,  at  his 
companion's  invitation,  he  shared  the  latter's 
breakfast  of  cheese  and  bread,  with  a  stoup  of  the 
bitter  wine.  As  the  market  became  crowded,  in 
the  stress  of  competition,  bargaining,  the  vendor 
forgot  Anthony's  presence;  and  with  a  deep 
breath  of  determination,  he  started  in  search  of 
employment;  he  again  faced  the  West. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  discovering  the  section 
of  the  city  given  over  to  the  automobile  industry, 
a  broad,  asphalt  way  with  glittering  show  win 
dows,  serried  ranks  of  cars,  by  either  curb. 
There  was,  however,  no  work  to  be  obtained  here; 
a  single  offer  would  scarcely  pay  for  his  main 
tenance;  in  its  potentialities  California  was  the 
merest  blur  upon  the  future.  Then  for  a  second 
and  more  lucrative  position  he  lacked  the  neces 
sary  papers.  Midday  found  him  without  a  pros 
pect  of  employment.  He  had  almost  two  dollars 
in  change  that  had  remained  intact;  and,  lunch 
ing  sparingly,  he  continued  his  inquiries. 

It  was  late  when  he  found  himself  before  a  sign 
[193] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

that  proclaimed  the  ability  within  to  secure  posi 
tions  for  competent  chauffeurs.  And,  influenced 
largely  by  the  chairs  which  he  saw  ranged  against 
the  wall,  he  entered  and  registered.  The  fee  for 
registration  was  a  dollar,  and  that  left  him  with 
scant  supplies  as  he  took  a  place  between  three 
other  men  awaiting  skeptically  the  positions  which 
they  had  been  assured  they  might  confidently  ex 
pect.  With  a  casual  nod  to  Anthony,  a  small  man 
with  watery  blue  eyes,  clad  in  a  worn  and  greasy 
livery,  continued  a  dissertation  on  methods  of 
making  money  additional  to  that  of  mere  salary, 
of  agreements  with  tiremen,  repairs  necessary  and 
otherwise,  the  proper  manner  in  which  to  bring  a 
car's  life  quickly  and  gracefully  to  a  close,  in  or 
der,  he  added  slyly  to  the  indifferent  clerk,  to  en 
courage  the  trade. 

The  afternoon  wasted  slowly  but  surely  to  a 
close;  no  one  entered  and  the  three  rose  with 
weary  oaths  and  left  in  search  of  a  convenient 
saloon.  They  waved  to  Anthony  to  follow  them, 
but  he  silently  declined. 

A  profound  depression  settled  over  him,  a  sense 
[194] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

of  impotence,  of  failure.  His  wounded  head 
fretted  him  with  frequent  hot  pains.  He  was 
enveloped  by  a  sense  of  desolating  loneliness 
which  he  endeavored  to  dispel  with  the  thought 
of  Eliza;  but  she  remained  as  far,  as  faintly 
sweet,  as  the  moon  of  a  spring  night.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  she  had  once  been  in  his  arms; 
surely  he  had  dreamed  her  voice — such  voices 
couldn't  exist  in  reality — telling  him  that  she 
loved  him.  Her  letter  had  gone  with  his  wallet, 
his  ticket  to  California.  He  had  not  written  her 
.  .  .  she  would  be  unable  to  penetrate  the  reason 
for  his  silence,  his  shame  for  blundering  into  such 
a  blind  way,  his  lack  of  anything  reassuring  to  tell 
her.  He  could  not  write  until  his  feet  were  once 
more  firmly  planted  upon  the  only  path  that  led 
to  success,  to  happiness,  to  her. 


[195] 


XXXII 

THE  clock  on  the  wall  above  the  clerk's  head 
indicated  half  past  five,  and  Anthony,  re 
linquishing  hope  for  the  day,  rose.  Now  he  re 
gretted  the  apparently  fruitless  expenditure  of  a 
dollar.  "Leave  an  address?"  the  clerk  inquired 
mechanically.  "Office  open  at  nine." 

"I'll  be  back,"  Anthony  told  him.  He  turned, 
and  collided  with  a  man  entering  suddenly  from 
the  street.  He  was  past  middle  age,  with  a  long, 
pallid  countenance,  drooping  snuff-colored  mus 
tache,  a  preoccupied  gaze  behind  bluish  glasses, 
and  was  clad  in  correct  brown  linen,  but  wore  an 
incongruously  battered  and  worn  soft  hat. 

"I  want  a  man  to  drive  my  car,"  he  announced 
abruptly.  "I  don't  particularly  care  for  a  highly 
expert  individual,  but  his  habits — "  he  broke  off, 
and  muttered,  "superficial  adjustment  to  environ 
ment — popular  conception  of  acquired  character- 
[196] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

istics."     Then,  "must  be  moderate,"  he  ended  un 
expectedly. 

Anthony  lingered,  while  the  clerk  assured  the 
other  that  several  highly  desirable  individuals 
were  available.  "In  fact,"  he  told  him,  "one 
left  the  office  only  a  few  minutes  ago ;  I  will  have 
him  call  upon  you  in  the  morning." 

"What's  this?"  he  replied,  indicating  Anthony; 
"is  he  a  chauffeur?"  The  clerk  nodded. 
"But,"  he  added,  "the  man  I  refer  to  is  older, 
more  experienced  .  .  .  sure  to  satisfy  you." 

"What  references  have  you?"  the  prospective 
employer  demanded. 

"None,"  Anthony  answered  directly.  The 
clerk  dismissed  his  chances  with  a  gesture. 

"What  experience?"  the  other  persisted. 

"Driving  on  and  off  for  four  or  five  years,  and 
I  am  a  fair  mechanic." 

"Fair  only?" 

"That's  all,  sir." 

The  older  man  drew  nearer  to  Anthony,  scruti 
nizing  him  with  a  kindly  severity.     "What's  the 
matter  with  your  head?"  he  demanded. 
[197] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"I  was  knocked  down  and  robbed  on  a  country 
road." 

"Lose  much?" 
"Everything,*1 

"Drinking?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Familiar  with  prehistoric  geological  strata?" 

Anthony  admitted  that  he  was  not. 

"I  had  hoped,"  the  other  murmured,  "to  get  a 
driver  who  could  assist  me  with  my  indices."  He 
renewed  his  close  inspection,  then,  "Elemental," 
he  pronounced  suddenly;  "I'll  take  you." 

"Five  dollars,  please,"  interpolated  the  clerk. 

Outside  his  new  employer  took  Anthony  by  the 
shoulder,  glancing  over  his  suit.  "You  can  get 
your  things,  and  then  go  out  to  my  house." 

"I  can  go  sooner  than  that,"  Anthony  corrected 
him.  "I  have  no  things." 

"Nothing  but  those  clothes!  Why  .  .  .  they 
will  hardly  do,  will  they?  You  must  get  some 
thing,  take  it  out  of  your  salary.  But,  hang  it,  a 
man  must  have  a  change  of  clothes!  You  must 
allow  me — you  are  only  a  boy.  I'll  come  along ; 
[198] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

no — impossible."  He  took  a  long  wallet  from  his 
pocket  and  placed  it  in  Anthony's  hands.  "I 
don't  know  what  such  things  cost,"  he  said.  "I 
think  there's  enough;  get  what  you  need.  I 
must  be  off  ...  Mousterian  deposits.  Customs 
House."  Before  Anthony  could  reply  he  had 
started  away  in  a  long,  quick  stride,  but  he 
stopped  short.  "My  address,"  he  cried,  "clean 
forgot."  He  gave  Anthony  a  street  and  number. 

"Rufus  Hardinge,"  he  called,  hurrying  away. 

Anthony  stood  gazing  in  incredulous  surprise 
at  the  polished,  brown  wallet  in  his  hand.  He 
turned  to  hurry  after  the  other,  to  protest,  but 
already  he  was  out  of  sight.  Anthony  slipped 
the  wallet  in  his  pocket,  and,  his  head  in  a  whirl, 
walked  slowly  over  the  street  until  he  found  him 
self  opposite  a  large  retail  clothing  establishment. 
After  a  brief  hesitation  he  entered,  pausing  to 
glance  hastily  at  his  resources.  In  the  leather 
pocket  which  contained  the  paper  money  he  saw 
a  comfortable  number  of  crisp  yellow  bills;  the 
rest  of  the  space  was  taken  up  by  bulky  and 
wholly  unintelligible  notes. 
[199] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

He  purchased  a  serviceable  suit,  stout  shoes,  a 
cap,  and,  after  a  short  consideration,  two  flannel 
shirts.  If  this  were  not  satisfactory,  he  con 
cluded,  he  could  pay  with  a  portion  of  his  salary. 
The  slip  of  the  total  amount,  which  he  carefully 
folded,  registered  thirty-one  dollars  and  seventy 
cents. 

At  a  small  tobacco  shop,  where  he  drew  upon 
his  own  rapidly  diminishing  capital,  he  discov 
ered  from  the  proprietor  that  it  would  be  neces 
sary  to  take  a  suburban  car  to  the  address  fur 
nished  him.  He  rolled  rapidly  between  rows  of 
small,  identical,  orderly  brick  dwellings ;  on  each 
shallow  portico  a  door  exhibited  an  obviously 
meretricious  graining;  dingy  or  garish  curtains 
draped  the  single  lower  windows;  the  tin  eaves 
were  continuous,  unvaried,  monotonous.  Oc 
casionally  a  greengrocer's  display  broke  the  mo 
notony  of  the  vitreous  way,  a  rar^  saloon  or  drug 
store  held  the  corners.  Farther  on  the  street  suf 
fered  a  decline,  the  line  of  dwellings  was  broken 
by  patches  of  bedraggled  gardens,  set  with  the 
broken  fragments  of  stone  ornaments ;  small  frame 
[200] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

structures,  streaked  by  the  weather  and  blistered 
remnants  of  paint,  alternated  with  stables,  stores 
heaped  with  the  sorry  miscellanies  of  meager,  dis 
rupted  households.  Imperceptibly  green  spaces 
opened,  foliage  fluttered  in  the  orange  light  of  the 
declining  sun;  through  an  opening  in  the  habited 
wall  he  caught  sight  of  a  glimmering  stream,  cows 
wandering  against  a  hill. 

He  left  the  car  finally  at  a  lane  where  the 
houses,  set  back  solidly  in  smooth,  opulent  lawns, 
were  somberly  comfortable,  reserved.  The  place 
he  sought,  a  four-square  ugly  dwelling  faced  with 
a  tower,  the  woodwork  painted  mustard  yellow, 
was  surrounded  by  gigantic  tulip  poplars.  At 
the  front  a  cement  basin  caught  the  spray  from 
a  cornucopia  held  aloft  by  sportive  cherubs  bal 
anced  precariously  on  the  tails  of  reversed  dol 
phins,  circled  by  a  tan-bark  path  to  the  entrance 
and  a  broad  side  porch.  He  was  about  to  ring 
the  bell  when  a  high,  young  voice  summoned  him 
to  the  latter.  There  he  discovered  a  girl  with  a 
mass  of  coppery  hair,  loosely  tied  and  streaming 
over  her  shoulder,  in  a  coffee-colored  wicker 
[201] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

chair.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  without  orna 
ments,  and  wore  pale  yellow  silk  stockings.  A 
yellow  paper  book,  with  a  title  in  French,  was 
spread  upon  her  lap;  and,  gravely  sitting  at  her 
side,  was  a  large  terrier  with  a  shaggy  yellow 
coat. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  without  preliminary, 
"that  you  are  the  person  who  took  father's  money. 
It  was  really  unexpected  of  you  to  appear  with 
any  of  it.  Give  me  the  wallet,"  she  demanded, 
without  allowing  him  opportunity  for  a  reply. 

He  gave  it  to  her  without  comment,  a  humorous 
light  rising  in  his  clear  gaze.  "I  warn  you,"  she 
continued,  "I  know  every  penny  that  was  in  it. 
I  always  give  him  a  fixed  amount  when  he  goes 
out."  She  emptied  the  money  into  her  lap,  and 
counted  it  industriously:  at  the  end  she  wrinkled 
her  brow. 

"Here  is  a  note  of  what  I  spent,"  he  informed 
her,  tendering  her  the  slip  from  the  store.  She 
scanned  it  closely.  "That's  not  unreasonable," 
she  admitted  finally,  palpably  disappointed  that 
no  villainous  discrepancy  had  been  revealed; 
[202] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

"and  it  adds  up  all  right."  Then,  with  an  as 
sumption  of  business  despatch,  "It  must  come  out 
of  your  salary,  of  course;  father  is  frightfully  im 
practical." 

"Of  course,"  he  assented  solemnly. 

"Your  references — " 

"I  haven't  any." 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture  of  dismay;  the 
terrier  rose  and  surveyed  him  with  a  low  growl. 
"He  promised  me  that  he  would  do  the  thing 
properly,  that  I  positively  need  not  go.  What 
experience  have  you  had?" 

He  told  her  briefly. 

"Dreadfully  unsatisfactory,"  she  commented, 
"and  you  are  oceans  too  young.  But  ...  we 
will  try  you  for  one  week;  I  can't  promise  any 
more.  Would  you  be  willing  to  help  a  little  in 
the  house — opening  boxes,  unwrapping  bones — ?" 

"Certainly,"  he  assured  her  cheerfully,  "any 
little  thing  I  can  do.  .  .  ." 

"The  car's  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  it  has  to 
be  brought  around  by  the  side  street.     There's  a 
room  overhead,  and  a  bell  from  the  house.     You 
[203] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

must  come  up  very  quickly  if,  in  the  night,  it  rings 
three  times,  for  that,'7  she  informed  him,  "will 
mean  burglars.  My  father  and  I  are  quite  alone 
here  with  two  women.  I  can't  think  of  anything 
else  now."  The  terrier  moved  closer  to  Anthony, 
sniffing  at  his  shoes,  then  raised  his  golden  eyes 
and  subjected  him  to  a  lengthy,  thoughtful  scru 
tiny.  "That  is  Thomas  Huxley,"  she  informed 
him;  "he  is  a  perfectly  wonderful  investigator, 
and  detests  all  sentimentality.  You  will  come  up 
to  the  kitchen  for  meals,"  she  called,  as  Anthony 
turned  to  descend  the  lawn;  "the  bell  will  ring  for 
your  dinner." 


[204] 


XXXIII 

HE  found  the  automobile  in  the  semi-gloom 
of  a  closed  carriage  house.  On  the  right, 
separated  by  a  partition,  were  three  loose  stalls, 
apparently  long  unoccupied;  their  ornamental 
fringe  of  straw  had  moldered,  and  dank,  grey 
heaps  of  feed  lay  in  the  troughs.  A  ladder  fixed 
vertically  against  a  wall  disappeared  into  cob 
webby  shadows  above;  and  mounting,  Anthony 
found  the  room  to  which  he  had  been  directed. 
It,  too,  was  partitioned  from  the  great,  bare  space 
of  the  hay-loft;  the  musty  smell  of  old  hay  and 
heated  wood  hung  dusty,  heavy,  about  the  corners, 
where  sounded  the  faint  squeaks  of  scattering 
mice.  The  space  which  he  was  to  occupy  had 
been  rigorously  swept  and  aired;  print  curtains 
hung  at  the  small  dormer  window  that  overlooked 
the  lawrr,  while,  above  the  washstand,  was  the  bell 
which,  he  had  been  warned,  would  appraise  him 
[205] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

of  the  possible  presence  of  burglars  above.  A 
bright  metal  clock  ticked  noisily  on  a  deal  bureau, 
and,  on  a  table  beside  a  pitcher  and  glass,  two 
books  had  been  arranged  with  precise  disarray; 
they  proved,  upon  investigation,  to  be  a  volume  of 
the  Edib.  Rev.  LXIX,  and  a  bound  collection  of 
the  proceedings  of  the  Linean  Society. 

He  saw  by  the  noisy  clock  that  it  was  nearly 
seven,  and,  hastily  washing,  responded  immedi 
ately  to  the  summons  of  the  bell.  A  small,  cov 
ered  porch  framed  the  kitchen  door,  where  he 
entered  to  find  a  long  room  dimly  lit,  and  a  dinner 
set  at  the  end  of  a  table.  A  bulky  woman  with  a 
flushed  countenance  and  massive  ankles  in  white 
cotton  stockings  set  before  him  half  a  broiled 
chicken,  an  artichoke  with  a  bowl  of  yellow  sauce, 
and  a  silver  jug  of  milk. 

"God  knows  it's  a  queer  meal  to  put  to  a  hearty 
young  lad,"  she  observed;  "but  it's  all  was  or 
dered.  There's  not  a  pitata  in  the  house,"  she 
added  in  palpable  disgust.  A  younger  woman  in 
a  frilled  apron  appeared  from  within,  carrying  a 
tray  of  used  dishes.  She  had  a  trim  figure,  and  a 
[206] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

broad  face  glowing  with  rude  vitality,  which,  with 
an  assumption  of  disdain,  she  turned  upon  An 
thony.  "I'd  never  trust  myself  with  him  in  the 
machine,"  she  observed  to  the  older  woman,  "and 
him  not  more  than  a  child." 

"Be  holding  your  impudent  clatter,"  the  other 
commanded,  "you're  not  required  to  go  out  with 
him  at  all." 

"Mr.  Hardinge  says,  will  you  see  him  in  the 
library  when  you  have  done,"  the  former  shot  at 
Anthony  over  «a  shapely  shoulder.  "You  can 
walk  through  the  dining  room  to  where  he  is  be 
yond." 

The  library  was  a  somber  chamber:  its  long 
windows  were  draped  with  stiff  folds  of  green 
velvet,  its  walls  occupied  by  high  bookcases  with 
leaded  glass  doors  and  ornamental  Gothic  points 
under  the  ceiling.  A  massive  desk  was  piled 
with  papers,  pamphlets,  printed  reports,  compara 
tive  tables  of  figures,  an  hundred  and  one  huddled 
details ;  the  table  beneath  a  glittering  crystal  chan 
delier  was  hardly  better;  even  the  floor  was 
stacked  with  books  about  the  chair  where  Anthony 
[207] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

found  his  employer.  The  latter  looked  up  ab 
sently  from  a  printed  sheet  as  Anthony  entered. 

"Positively,"  he  pronounced,  "there  are  not 
enough  dominants  to  secure  Mendel's  position/' 
His  expression  was  profoundly  disturbed. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Anthony  replied  non-committally. 

"The  consequences  of  that,"  the  other  contin 
ued,  "are  beyond  prediction."  Silence  descended 
upon  him;  his  fixed  gaze  seemed  to  be  contemplat 
ing  some  unexpected  catastrophe,  some  grave 
peril,  opened  before  him  in  the  still  chamber.  "I 
am  at  a  temporary  loss! "  he  ejaculated  suddenly; 
"we  are  all  at  a  loss  .  .  .  unless  my  experiments 
in  pure  descent  warrant — "  Suddenly  he  became 
aware  of  Anthony's  presence.  "Oh!"  he  said 
pleasantly;  "glad  you  got  fixed  up.  Say  nothing 
more  to  Annot — it's  all  nonsense,  taking  it  out  of 
your  salary.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  see  you 
for,"  he  added;  "what  salary  do  you  require? 
what  did  you  get  at  your  last  place?" 

Anthony  made  a  swift  calculation  of  the  dis 
tance  to  California,  the  probable  cost  of  carriage. 
"I  should  like  seventy-five,"  he  pronounced 
[208] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

finally.  His  conscience  suddenly  and  uncomfort 
ably  awoke  in  the  presence  of  the  other's  unques 
tioning  generosity.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you 
that  I  don't  intend  to  stay  here  long.  ...  I  am 
anxious  to  get  to  California." 

But  Rufus  Hardinge  had  already  forgotten 
him.  "Seventy-five,"  he  had  murmured,  with  a 
satisfied  nod,  and  once  more  concentrated  his 
attention  upon  the  sheet  in  his  hand.  As  Anthony 
returned  through  the  dining  room  he  found  Annot 
Hardinge  arranging  a  spray  of  scarlet  verbena  in 
a  glass  vase. 

"Has  father  spoken  to  you  about  the  salary  you 
are  to  get?"  she  asked.  He  paused,  cap  in  hand. 
"I  told  him  that  you  were  positively  not  to  get 
above  eighty." 

"I  told  him  seventy-five.  He  seemed  con 
tented." 

"He  would  have  been  contented  if  you  had  said 
seven  hundred  and  fifty."  Then,  to  discounte 
nance  any  criticism  of  her  father's  intelligence, 
she  added:  "He  is  a  very  famous  biologist,  you 
know.  The  people  about  here  don't  understand 
[209] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

those  things,  but  in  London,  in  Paris,  in  Berlin, 
he  is  easily  one  of  the  greatest  men  alive.  He  is 
carrying  the  Mendelian  theory  to  its  absolute, 
logical  conclusion." 

"He  said  something  about  that  to  me,"  Anthony 
commented;  "it  seemed  to  upset  him." 

A  cloud  appeared  upon  her  countenance;  then, 
coldly,  "That  will  do,"  she  told  him. 

Once  more  in  the  informal  garage  he  lit  the  gas 
jet  on  either  wall,  and,  in  the  bubbling,  watery 
light,  found  the  automobile  caked  with  mud  and 
grease,  the  tires  flat,  the  wires  charred  and  the 
cylinders  coated  with  carbon.  A  pair  of  old  can 
vas  trousers  were  hanging  from  a  nail,  and,  don 
ning  them  and  connecting  a  length  of  hose  to  a 
convenient  faucet,  he  began  the  task  of  putting  the 
machine  in  order.  It  was  past  eleven  when  he 
finished  for  the  night,  and  mounting  with 
cramped  and  stiffened  muscles  to  his  room,  he  fell 
into  immediate  slumber. 


[210] 


XXXIV 

ON  the  following  morning  he  wrote  a  brief, 
reassuring  note  to  his  father;  then,  over 
another  page,  hesitated  with  poised  pen.  "Dear 
Eliza,"  he  finally  began,  then  once  more  fell  into 
indecision.  "I  wish  I  were  back  on  the  Wingo- 
hocking  with  you,"  he  embarked.  "That  was 
splendid,  having  you  in  the  canoe,  with  no  one 
else;  the  whole  world  seemed  empty  except  for 
you  and  me.  It's  no  joke  of  an  emptiness  with 
out  you.  I  have  been  delayed  in  reaching  Cali 
fornia,  but  I'll  soon  be  out  there  now,  working 
like  thunder  for  our  wedding. 

"Mostly  I  can't  realize  it,  it's  too  good  to  be 
true — you  seem  like  a  thing  I  dreamed  about,  in 
a  dream  all  full  of  moonlight  and  white  flowers. 
It's  funny  but  I  smell  lilacs,  you  know  like  you 
picked,  everywhere.  Last  night,  cleaning  a  car 
just  soaked  in  dirt  and  greasy  smells,  that  per- 
[211] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

fume  came  out  of  nothing,  and  hung  about  so 
real  that  it  hurt  me.  And  all  the  time  I  kept 
thinking  that  you  were  standing  beside  me  and 
smiling.  I  knew  better,  but  I  had  to  look  more 
than  once. 

"Love's  different  from  what  I  thought  it  would 
be;  I  thought  it  would  be  all  happy,  but  it's  not 
that,  it's  blamed  serious.  I  am  always  flinching 
from  blows  that  might  fall  on  you,  do  you  see? 
Before  I  went  away  I  saw  a  man  kiss  a  woman, 
and  they  both  seemed  scared;  I  understand  that 
now — they  loved  each  other." 

He  broke  off  and  gazed  out  the  narrow  win 
dow  over  the  feathery  tops  of  maples,  the  sym 
metrical,  bronze  tops  of  a  clump  of  pines.  The 
odor  of  lilacs  came  to  him  illusively;  he  was  cer 
tain  that  Eliza  was  standing  at  his  shoulder;  he 
could  hear  a  silken  whisper,  feel  an  intangible 
thrill  of  warmth.  He  turned  sharply,  and  faced 
the  empty  room,  the  bright,  stentorious  clock,  the 
table  with  the  pitcher  and  glass  and  serious  vol 
umes.  "Hell!"  he  exclaimed  in  angry  remon 
strance  at  his  credulity.  Still  shaken  by  the 
[212] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

reality  of  the  impression  he  wondered  if  he  were 
growing  crazy?  The  bell  above  the  washstand 
rang  sharply,  and,  putting  the  incomplete  letter 
in  a  drawer,  he  proceeded  over  the  tanbark  path 
that  led  to  the  house. 

Annot  Hardinge  beckoned  to  him  from  the 
porch,  and,  turning,  he  passed  a  conservatory 
built  against  the  side  of  the  dwelling,  where  he 
saw  small,  identical  plants  ranged  in  mathemati 
cal  rows. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  demanded  abruptly, 
as  he  stopped  before  her.  "Anthony,"  he  told 
her. 

She  was  dressed  in  apricot  muslin,  with  a  long 
necklace  of  alternate  carved  gold  and  amber 
beads,  dependent  amber  earrings,  and  a  flapping 
white  hat  with  broad,  yellow  ribbands  that 
streamed  downward  with  her  hair.  In  one  hand 
she  held  a  pair  of  crumpled  white  gloves  and  a 
soft  gold  mesh  bag. 

"You  may  bring  around  the  car  .  .  .  An 
thony,"  she  directed.  "I  want  to  go  into  town." 

In  the  heart  of  the  shopping  district  they 
[213] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

moved  slowly  in  an  unbroken  procession  of  mo 
tor  landaulets,  open  cars  and  private  hansoms,  a 
glittering,  colorful  procession  winding  through 
the  glittering,  colorful  cavern  of  the  shop  win 
dows.  The  sidewalks  were  thronged  with 
women,  brilliant  in  lace  and  dyed  feathers  and 
jewels,  the  thin,  sustained  babble  of  trivial  voices 
mingled  with  the  heavy,  coiling  odors  of  costly 
perfumes. 

When  a  small  heap  of  bundles  had  been  ac 
cumulated  a  rebellious  expression  clouded  An- 
not  Hardinge's  countenance.  "Stop  at  that  con 
fectioner's,"  she  directed,  indicating  a  window 
filled  with  candies  scattered  in  a  creamy  tide, 
bister,  pale  mauve,  and  citrine,  over  fluted,  deli 
cately  green  satin,  against  a  golden  mass  of  mo 
lasses  bars.  She  soon  emerged,  with  a  package 
tied  in  silver  cord,  and  paused  upon  the  curb. 
"I  want  to  go  out  .  .  .  out,  into  the  heart  of  the 
country,"  she  proclaimed;  "this  crowd,  these  tin 
sel  women,  make  me  ill.  Drive  until  I  tell  you 
to  stop  .  .  .  away  from  everything." 

When  they  had  left  the  tangle  of  paved  streets, 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

the  innumerable  stone  facades,  she  directed  their 
course  into  a  ravine  whose  steep  sides  were  cov 
ered  with  pines,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  stream 
foamed  whitely  over  rocky  ledges.  Beyond,  they 
rose  to  an  upland,  where  open,  undulating  hills 
burned  in  the  blue  flame  of  noon;  at  their  back 
a  trail  of  dust  resettled  upon  the  road,  before 
them  a  glistening  flock  of  peafowl  scattered  with 
harsh,  threatening  cries.  By  a  gnarled  apple 
tree,  whose  ripening  June  apples  overhung  the 
road,  she  called,  "stop!" 

The  motor  halted  in  the  spicy,  dappled  shadow 
of  the  tree;  at  one  side  a  cornfield  spread  its 
silken,  green  tapestry ;  on  the  other  a  pasture  was 
empty,  close-cropped,  rising  to  a  coronal  of  tow 
ering  chestnuts.  The  road,  in  either  direction, 
was  deserted. 

Anthony  heard  a  sigh  of  contentment  at  his 
back:  relaxed  from  the  tension  of  driving  he  re 
moved  his  cap,  and,  with  crossed  legs,  contem 
plated  the  sylvan  quiet.  He  watched  a  flock  of 
blackbirds  wheeling  above  the  apple  tree,  and  de 
cided  that  they  had  been  within  easy  shot. 
[215] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"Look  over  your  head!"  she  cried  suddenly; 
"what  gorgeous  apples." 

He  rose,  and,  measuring  the  distance  in  a  swift 
glance,  jumped,  and  caught  hold  of  a  limb,  by 
means  of  which  he  drew  himself  up  into  the  tree. 
He  mounted  rapidly,  filling  his  cap  with  crimson 
apples;  when  his  pockets  were  full  he  paused. 
Down  through  the  screen  of  leaves  he  could  see 
her  upturned  countenance,  framed  in  the  broad, 
white  hat;  her  expression  was  severely  imper 
sonal;  yet,  viewed  from  that  informal  angle,  she 
did  not  appear  displeased.  And,  when  he  had 
descended,  she  picked  critically  among  the  store 
he  offered.  She  rolled  back  the  gloves  upon  her 
wrists,  and  bit  largely,  with  youthful  gusto.  On 
the  road,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  Anthony 
embarked  upon  the  consumption  of  the  remainder. 
He  strolled  a  short  distance  from  the  car,  and 
found  a  seat  upon  a  low  stone-wall. 


[216] 


XXXV 

SOON,  he  saw,  she  too  left  the  car,  and  passed 
him,  apparently  ignorant  of  his  presence. 
But,  upon  her  return,  she  stopped,  and  indicated 
with  her  foot  some  feathery  plants  growing  in  a 
ditch  by  the  road.  "Horsetails,"  she  declared; 
"they  are  Paleozoic  .  .  .  millions  of  years  old." 

"They  look  fresh  and  green  still,"  he  observed. 

She  glanced  at  him  coldly,  but  his  expression 
was  entirely  serious.  "I  mean  the  species  of 
course.  Father  has  fossils  of  the  Devonian  pe 
riod  .  .  .  they  were  trees  then."  She  chose  a 
place  upon  the  wall,  ten  feet  or  more  from  him, 
and  sat  with  insolent  self-possession,  whistling 
an  inconsequential  tune.  There  was  absolutely 
no  pose  about  her,  he  decided;  she  possessed  a 
masculine  carelessness  in  regard  to  him.  She 
leaned  back,  propped  upon  her  arms,  and  the 
frank,  flowing  line  of  her  full  young  body  was 
like  the  June  day  in  its  uncorseted  freedom  and 
beauty. 

[217] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"If  you  will  get  that  package  from  the  con 
fectioner's — "  she  suggested  finally.  She  un 
folded  the  paper,  and  exposed  a  row  of  small 
cakes,  which  she  divided  rigorously  in  two;  re- 
wrapping  one  division  she  held  it  out  toward 
him. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  seriously.  "I'm  not 
hungry." 

"It's  past  two,"  she  informed  him,  "and  we 
can't  possibly  be  back  in  time  for  luncheon.  I'd 
rather  not  hold  this  out  any  longer."  He  re 
lieved  her  without  further  words.  "Two  brioche 
and  two  babas,"  she  enumerated.  He  resumed 
his  place,  and  then  consumed  the  cakes  without 
further  speech. 

"The  study  of  biology,"  she  informed  him  later, 
with  a  gravity  appropriate  to  the  subject,  "makes 
a  great  many  small  distinctions  seem  absurd. 
When  you  get  accustomed  to  thinking  in  races, 
and  in  millions  of  years,  the  things  your  friends 
fuss  about  seem  absurd.  And  so,  if  you  like, 
why,  smoke." 

It  was  his  constant  plight  that,  between  the  for- 
[218] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

mal  restrictions  of  his  position,  and  the  vigorous 
novelty  of  her  speech,  Anthony  was  constantly  at 
a  loss.  "Perhaps,"  he  replied  inanely;  "I  know 
nothing  about  those  things." 

She  flashed  over  him  a  candid,  amber  gaze  that 
singularly  resembled  her  father's.  "You  are  not 
at  all  acquisitive,"  she  informed  him;  "and  it's 
perfectly  evident  that  you  are  the  poorest  sort 
of  chauffeur.  You  drive  very  nicely,"  she  con 
tinued  with  severe  justice.  "One  could  trust  you 
in  a  crisis ;  but  it  is  little  things  that  make  a  chauf 
feur,  and  in  the  little  things,"  she  paused  to  indi 
cate  a  globe  of  cigarette  smoke  that  instantly  dis 
solved,  "you  are  like — that." 

He  moodily  acknowledged  to  himself  the  truth 
of  her  observation,  but  such  acumen  he  considered 
entirely  unnecessary  in  one  so  young;  he  did  not 
think  it  becoming.  He  contrasted  her,  greatly 
to  her  detriment,  with  the  elusive  charm  of  Eliza 
Dreen;  the  girl  before  him  was  too  vivid,  too  se 
cure;  he  felt  instinctively  that  she  was  entirely 
free  from  the  bonds,  the  conventions,  that  held 
the  majority  of  girls  within  recognized,  conven- 
[219] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

lent  limits.  Her  liberty  of  mind  upset  a  balance 
to  which  both  heredity  and  experience  had  ac 
customed  him.  The  entire  absence  of  a  tacitly 
recognized  masculine  superiority  subconsciously 
made  him  uneasy,  and  he  took  refuge  in  im 
ponderable  silence. 

"Besides/'  she  continued  airily,  "you  are  too 
physically  normal  to  think,  all  normal  people  are 
stupid.  .  .  .  You  are  like  one  of  those  wood  crea 
tures  in  the  classic  pastorals." 

A  faint  grin  overspread  Anthony's  countenance; 
among  so  many  unintelligible  words  he  had  re 
gained  his  poise — this  was  the  usual,  the  familiar 
feminine  chatter,  endless,  inconsequential,  by 
means  of  which  all  girls  presented  the  hopeless 
tangle  of  their  thoughts  and  emotions;  its  tone 
had  deceived  him  only  at  the  beginning. 

In  the  stillness  which  followed  other  black 
birds,  equally  within  shot,  winged  over  the  apple 
tree;  the  shadow  of  the  boughs  crept  farther  and 
farther  down  the  road.  She  rose  vigorously.  "I 
must  get  back,"  she  announced.  She  remained 
silent  during  the  return,  but  Anthony,  with  the 
[220] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

sense  of  direction  cultivated  during  countless  days 
in  the  fields  and  swales,  found  the  way  without 
hesitation. 

When  she  left  the  car  he  slowly  backed  and 
circled  to  the  carriage  house.  As  he  splashed 
body  and  wheels  with  water,  polished  the  metal, 
dried  and  dusted  the  cushions,  the  crisp,  cool  voice 
of  Annot  Hardinge  rang  in  his  ears.  He  divined 
something  of  her  isolated  existence,  her  devotion 
to  the  absorbed,  kindly  man  who  was  her  father, 
and  speculated  upon  her  matured  youth.  She 
recalled  his  sister  Ellie,  for  whose  inflexible  in 
tegrity  he  cherished  a  deep-seated  admiration; 
but  both  left  him  cold  before  the  poignant  tender 
ness  of  Eliza  .  .  .  Eliza,  the  unforgettable,  who 
loved  him. 


[221] 


XXXVI 

AFTER  an  unsubstantial  dinner  of  grilled 
sweetbreads  and  mushrooms,  and  a  frozen 
pudding,  he  continued  his  interrupted  letter: 

"But  there  isn't  any  use  in  my  trying  to  write 
my  love  in  words;  it  won't  go  into  words,  even 
inside  of  me  I  can't  explain  it — it  seems  as  if  in 
stead  of  its  being  a  part  of  me  that  I  am  a  part  of 
it,  of  something  too  big  for  me  to  see  the  end  of." 
Then  he  became  practicable,  and  wrote  optimistic 
ally  of  the  things  that  were  soon  to  be. 

There  was  a  letter  box  at  the  upper  corner  of 
the  street,  and,  passing  the  porch,  he  saw  the 
biologist  sunk  in  an  attitude  of  profound  dejec 
tion.  His  daughter  sat  with  bare  arms  and  neck 
at  his  side;  her  hair  was  bound  in  a  gleaming 
mass  about  her  ears,  and  one  hand  was  laid  upon 
the  man's  shoulder,  while  she  patted  Thomas 
Huxley  with  the  other.  The  dog  rose,  growling 
belligerently  at  the  unfamiliar  figure,  but  sank 
[222] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

again  beneath  a  sharp  command.  When  he  re 
turned  Rufus  Hardinge  greeted  him,  and  turned 
to  his  daughter  with  a  murmured  suggestion,  but 
she  shook  her  head  in  decisive  negation.  A  light 
shone  palely  in  the  long  windows  at  their  back. 
The  sun,  at  its  skyey,  evening  toilette,  seemed,  in 
the  rosy  glow  of  westering  candles,  to  scatter  a 
cloud  of  powdered  gold  over  the  worn  and  hud 
dled  shoulders  of  the  world. 

Suddenly,  seemingly  in  reconsideration  of  her 
decision,  she  called,  "Oh,  Anthony!"  and  he  re 
traced  his  steps  to  the  porch.  "My  father  sug 
gests  that  you  sit  here,"  she  told  him  distantly. 
"He  says  that  you  are  very  young,  and  that  soli 
tude  is  not  good  for  you." 

"Annot,"  the  older  man  protested  humorously, 
"you  have  mangled  my  intent  beyond  any  recog 
nition."  With  an  unstudied,  friendly  gesture  he 
tended  Anthony  his  cigar  case.  A  deep  preoccu 
pation  enveloped  him;  he  sat  with  loose  hands 
and  unseeing  eyes.  In  the  deepening  twilight  his 
countenance  was  grey.  Anthony  had  taken  a 
position  upon  the  edge  of  the  porch,  his  feet  in 
[223] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

the  fragrant  grass,  out  of  which  fireflies  rose 
glimmering,  mounting  higher  and  higher,  until, 
finally,  they  disappeared  into  the  night  above,  in 
the  pale  birth  of  the  stars. 

A  deep  silence  enfolded  them  until  in  an  unex 
pected,  low  voice,  Rufus  Hardinge  repeated  me 
chanically  aloud  lines  called,  evidently,  out  of  a 
memory  of  long  ago: 

"Within  thy  beams,  Oh,  Sun!  or  who  could  find, 
While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  too,"  he  paused,  groping  in  his  memory  for 

the  words: 
"That  too  such  countless  orbs  thou  madst  us 

blind." 

The  girl  rose,  and  drew  his  head  into  her  warm, 
young  arms.  "Don't,  father,"  she  cried,  in  a 
sudden,  throbbing  apprehension;  "please  .  .  . 
please.  You  have  the  clearest,  most  beautiful 
eyes  in  the  world.  Think  of  all  they  have  seen 
and  understood — "  He  patted  her  absently. 
Anthony  moved  silently  away. 
[224] 


XXXVII 

NOT  long  after,  at  breakfast,  the  young  and 
disdainful  maid  conveyed  to  Anthony  a 
request  to  proceed,  when  he  had  finished,  to  the 
conservatory.  There  he  discovered  Annot  Har- 
dinge,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her  vig 
orous  elbows,  dusting  with  a  fine,  brown  powder 
the  rows  of  monotonous,  potted  plants.  She  di 
rected  him  to  follow  her  with  a  slender-nosed  wa 
tering  pot.  He  wondered  silently  at  the  feature 
less  display  of  what  he  found  to  be  ordinary  bean 
plants,  some  of  the  dwarf  variety,  others  drawn 
up  against  the  wall.  They  bore  in  exact,  minute 
inscriptions,  strange  names  and  titles,  cryptic 
numbers;  some,  he  saw,  were  labelled  "Domi 
nants,"  others,  "Recessives." 

"The  'cupids'  are  doing  wretchedly,  poor 
dears!"  she  exclaimed  before  a  row  of  dwarf 
sweet  peas.  "This  is  my  father's  laboratory," 
she  told  him  briefly. 

[225] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

"I  thought  he  had  something  to  do  with  Dar 
win  and  the  missing  link." 

She  gazed  at  him  pityingly  from  the  heights 
of  a  vast  superiority.  "Darwin  did  some  valu 
able  preliminary  work,"  she  instructed  him;  "al 
though  Wallace  really  guessed  it  all  first.  Now 
Mendel,  Bateson,  are  the  important  names.  They 
were  busy  with  the  beginnings;  and,  among  the 
beginnings,  plants  are  the  most  suggestive."  She 
indicated  a  small  row  of  budding  sweet  peas. 
"Perhaps,  in  those  flowers,  the  whole  secret  of  the 
universe  will  be  found;  perhaps  the  mystery  of 
our  souls  will  be  explained;  isn't  it  thrilling! 
The  secret  of  inheritance  may  sleep  in  those  buds 
— if  they  are  white  it  will  prove  .  .  .  oh,  a  thou 
sand  things,  and  among  them  that  father  is  the 
most  wonderful  scientist  alive;  it  will  explain 
heredity  and  control  it,  make  a  new  kind  of  world 
possible,  a  world  without  the  most  terrible  dis 
eases.  What  church,  what  saint,  what  god,  has 
really  done  that?"  she  demanded.  "Stupid  prig 
gish  figures  bending  out  of  their  gold-plated 
heavens!" 

[226] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

Her  enthusiasm  communicated  a  thrill  to  him 
as  he  regarded  the  still,  withdrawn  mystery  of 
the  plants.  For  the  first  time  he  thought  of  them 
as  alive,  as  he  was  alive;  he  imagined  them  re 
turning  his  gaze,  his  interest,  exchanging — criti 
cally,  in  their  imperceptible,  chaste  tongue — their 
unimpassioned  opinions  of  him.  It  was  a  dis 
turbing  possibility  that  the  secret  of  his  future, 
of  life  and  death,  might  lurk  in  the  flowers  to 
unfold  on  those  slender  stems.  He  was  oppressed 
by  a  feeling  of  a  world  crowded  with  invisible, 
living  forms,  of  fields  filled  with  billions  of 
grassy  inhabitants,  of  seas,  mountains,  made  up 
of  interlocking  and  contending  lives;  every 
breath,  he  felt,  absorbed  races  of  varied  individ 
uals.  He  thought,  too,  of  people  as  plants,  as 
roses — Oh,  Eliza !  — as  nettles,  rank  weeds,  crim 
son  lilies.  And,  vaguely,  this  hurt  him;  some 
thing  valuable,  something  sustaining,  vanished 
from  his  unformulated,  instinctive  conception  of 
life;  the  world  of  men,  their  aims,  their  courage, 
ideals,  lost  their  peculiar  beauty,  their  impor 
tance;  the  past,  rising  from  the  mold  through  those 
[227] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

green  tubes  and  vanishing  into  a  future  of  dis 
solving  gases,  shrunk,  stripped  of  its  glamor,  to 
an  affair  of  little  moment. 

Outside,  as  he  descended  the  lawn,  the  sun  had 
the  artificial  glitter  of  an  incandescent  light;  the 
trees  waved  their  arms  at  him  threateningly. 
Then,  with  a  shrug  of  his  normal  young  shoulders, 
he  relinquished  the  entire  conception;  he  forgot 
it.  He  recklessly  permeated  a  universe  of  airy 
atoms  with  the  smoke  of  a  Dulcina.  "That's  a 
woolly  delusion,"  he  pronounced. 

That  evening  he  burnished  the  car,  and 
mounted  the  ladder  to  his  room  late.  But  the 
evening  following,  detained  to  perform  a  trivial 
task,  found  him  seated  upon  the  porch,  enveloped 
in  the  fragrant  clouds  of  Habana  leaf. 


[228] 


XXXVIII 

ANNOT,  as  now  he  mentally  termed  her, 
dressed  in  the  inevitable  yellow,  was  swing 
ing  a  satin  slipper  on  the  point  of  her  foot;  her 
father  was,  if  possible,  more  greyly  withdrawn 
than  before. 

"To-night,"  the  biologist  finally  addressed  his 
daughter,  "your  mother  has  been  dead  eighteen 
years.  .  .  .  She  hated  science ;  she  said  it  had  de 
stroyed  my  heart.  Impossible — a  purely  func 
tionary  pump.  The  illusions  of  emotions  are 
cerebro-spinal  reflexes,  only  that.  She  said  that 
I  cared  more  for  science  than — than  herself." 
He  raised  his  head  sharply,  "I  was  forced  to  tell 
her  the  truth,  in  common  honor:  science  first.  .  .  . 
Tears  are  an  automatic  escapement  to  protect  the 
vision.  But  women  have  no  logic,  little  under 
standing  ;  hopelessly  romantic,  a  false  quantity — 
romance,  dangerous.  I  was  away  when  she  died 
[229] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

.  .  .  Borneo,  Aurignacian  strata  had  been  dis 
covered,  a  distinct  parallel  with  the  Maurer  jaw. 
Death  is  only  a  change  of  chemical  activity,"  he 
shot  at  Anthony  in  a  voice  not  entirely  steady, 
"the  human  entity  a  passing  agglomeration, 
kinetic.  .  .  .  Love  is  a  mechanical  principle, 
categorically  imperative,"  his  voice  sank,  became 
diffuse.  "Absolute  science,  selfless. 

"People  found  her  beautiful,  I  didn't  know," 
he  added  wistfully;  "beauty  is  a  vague  term. 
The  Chapelle  skull  is  beautiful,  as  I  understand 
it,  as  I  understand  it.  In  a  letter  to  me,"  after  a 
long  pause,  "she  employed  the  term  'frozen  to 
death';  she  said  that  I  had  frozen  her  to  death. 
Only  a  figure,  romantic,  inexact." 

"Stuff! "  Annot  exclaimed  lightly,  but  her  anx 
ious  countenance  contradicted  the  spirit  of  her 
tones.  "You  mustn't  stir  about  in  old  troubles. 
Everything  great  demands  sacrifice;  mother 
didn't  quite  understand;  and  I  expect  she  got 
lonely,  poor  dear." 

Anthony  rose,  and  made  his  way  somberly  to 
ward  the  stable,  but  running  feet,  his  name  called 
[230] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

in  low,  urgent  tones,  arrested  his  progress.  An- 
not  approached  with  the  trouble  deepening  in  her 
gaze.  "Does  he  seem  entirely  himself  to  you?" 
she  asked,  but,  before  he  could  answer, — "of 
course,  you  don't  know  him  well  enough.  You 
see,  he  is  working  too  much  again,  an  average 
of  sixteen  hours  for  the  ten  days  past.  I  haven't 
said  anything  because  the  most  difficult  part  of 
his  work  is  at  an  end.  If  his  last  conclusions  are 
right  he  will  have  only  to  scribble  the  reports, 
put  a  book  together.  ...  I  can  always  tell  when 
he  is  overworked  by  the  cobwebs — he  tries  to 
brush  them  off  his  face,"  she  explained.  "They 
don't  exist,  of  course. 

"But  I  really  wanted  to  say  this,"  she  lifted  her 
candid  gaze  to  his  face.  "Could  you  be  a  little 
more  about  the  house?  we  might  need  you;  we'll 
use  the  car  very  little  for  a  while."  The  appre 
hension  was  clearly  visible  now.  "Would  you 
mind  helping  him  with  his  clothes;  he  gets  them 
mixed?  It  isn't  regular,  I  know,"  she  told  him; 
"but  we  have  a  great  deal  of  money;  anything 
you  required — " 

[231] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"Perhaps  I'd  be  better  at  that,"  he  suggested. 
"You  know,  you  said  I  was  a  rotten  chauffeur." 

For  a  moment,  appealing,  she  had  seemed 
nearer  to  him,  but  now  she  retreated  spiritually, 
slipped  behind  her  cold  indifference.  "There 
will  be  nothing  more  to-night;  if  he  grows  worse 
you  will  have  to  move  into  the  house."  She  left 
him  abruptly,  gathering  her  filmy  skirt  from  the 
grass,  an  elusive  shape  with  gleams  on  her  hair, 
her  arms  and  neck  white  for  an  instant  and  then 
veiled  in  the  scarf  of  night. 

In  his  room  he  could  still  hear,  mingled  with 
the  faint,  muffled  squeaking  of  the  mice  in  the 
empty  hayloft,  Hardinge's  voice,  jerky,  laborious, 
"a  categorical  imperative  .  .  .  categorical  im 
perative."  He  wondered  what  that  meant  ap 
plied  to  love?  An  errant  air  brought  him  the  un 
mistakable  odor  of  white  lilacs,  an  ineffable  im 
pression  of  Eliza. 


[232] 


XXXIX 

THE  day  following  found  him  installed  in 
the  house,  in  a  small  chamber  formed 
where  the  tower  fronted  upon  the  third  story.  At 
luncheon  a  place  was  laid  for  him  at  the  table 
with  Annot  and  her  father,  where  the  attentions 
of  the  disdainful  and  shapely  maid  positively 
quivered  with  suppressed  scorn.  Anthony  had 
found  in  his  room  fifty  dollars  in  an  envelope, 
upon  which  Annot  had  scribbled  that  he  might 
need  a  few  things;  and,  at  liberty  in  the  after 
noon,  he  boarded  an  electric  car  for  the  city, 
where  he  invested  in  fresh  and  shining  pumps, 
and  other  necessities. 

The  house  was  dark  when  he  inserted  has 
newly  acquired  latchkey  in  the  front  door  and 
made  his  way  softly  aloft.  But  a  thread  of 
light  was  shining  under  the  door  of  Rufus  Har- 
dinge's  study.  Later — he  had  just  turned  out 
the  light — a  short  knock  fell  upon  his  door. 
[233] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"Me,"  Annot  answered  his  instant  query.  "I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  dress  and  come  to  my  father. 
It  may  be  unnecessary;  he  may  go  quietly  to 
bed;  but  go  he  must." 

He  found  her  in  a  dressing  gown  that  fell  in 
heavy,  straight  folds  of  saffron  satin,  her  feet 
thrust  in  quaint  Turkish  slippers  with  curled 
points ;  while  over  her  shoulders  slipped  and  slid 
the  coppery  rope  of  her  hair.  She  led  the  way  to 
the  study,  which  she  entered  without  knocking. 
Anthony  saw  the  biologist  bent  over  pages  spread 
in  the  concentrated  light  of  a  green  shaded  globe. 
In  a  glass  case  against  the  wall  some  moldy  bones 
were  mounted  and  labelled;  fragmentary  and  sin 
ister-appearing  casts  gleamed  whitely  from  a 
stand;  and,  everywhere,  was  the  orderly  confu 
sion  of  books  and  papers  that  had  distinguished 
the  library. 

"Come,  Rufus,"  Annot  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder;  "it's  bedtime  for  all  scientists.  You 
promised  me  you  would  be  in  by  eleven." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  the  hasty  regard  directed 
at  an  ill-timed,  casual  stranger.  "Yes,  yes,"  he 
[234] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

ejaculated  impatiently,  "get  to  bed.     I'll  follow 
.  .  .  some  crania  tracings,  prognathic  angles — " 

"To-morrow  will  do  for  those,"  she  insisted 
gently,  "you  are  making  yourself  ill  again — " 

"Nonsense,"  he  interrupted,  "never  felt  better 
in  my  life,  never — "  his  voice  dwindled  abruptly 
to  silence,  as  though  a  door  had  been  closed  on 
him;  his  lips  twisted  impotently;  beads  of  sweat 
stood  out  upon  his  white,  strained  forehead.  His 
whole  body  was  rigid  in  an  endeavor  to  regain  his 
utterance.  He  rose,  and  would  have  fallen,  if 
Annot's  arm  had  not  slipped  about  his  shoulders. 
Anthony  hurried  forward,  and,  supporting  him 
on  either  side,  they  assisted  him  into  the  sleeping 
chamber  beyond.  There,  at  full  length  on  a 
couch,  a  sudden,  marble-like  immobility  fell  upon 
his  features,  his  mouth  slightly  open,  his  hands 
clenched.  Annot  busied  herself  swiftly,  while 
Anthony  descended  into  the  dark,  still  house  in 
search  of  ice.  When  he  returned,  Hardinge 
was  pronouncing  disconnected  words,  terms. 
"Eoliths,"  he  said,  "snow  line  .  .  .  one  hundred 
and  thirty  millimeters."  He  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
[235] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

ment,  then,  struggling  into  a  sitting  posture,  "An- 
not! "  he  cried  sharply,  "I've  frightened  you  again. 
Only  a  touch  of  .  .  .  aphasia ;  unfortunately  not 
new,  my  dear,  but  not  serious." 

Later,  when  Anthony  had  assisted  him  in  the 
removal  of  his  clothes,  and  lowered  the  light,  he 
found  Annot  in  the  study  assembling  the  papers 
scattered  on  the  table.  "I  am  glad  that  you  are 
here,"  she  said  simply.  "Soon  he  can  have  a 
complete  rest."  She  sank  into  a  chair;  he  had 
had  no  idea  that  she  could  appear  so  lovely:  her 
widely-opened  eyes  held  flecks  of  gold;  beneath 
the  statuesque  fall  of  the  dressing  gown  her  bare 
ankles  were  milky-white. 


[236] 


XL 

HE  felt  strangely  at  ease  in  a  setting  so 
easily  strange.  There  was  a  palpable 
flavor  of  unreality  in  the  moment,  of  detachment 
from  the  commonplace  round  of  existence ;  it  was 
without  connection,  without  responsibility  to  yes 
terday  or  to  to-morrow;  he  was  isolated  with  the 
informal  vision  of  Annot  in  an  hour  which  seemed 
neither  day  nor  night.  He  felt — inarticulately — 
divorced  from  his  customary  daily  personality; 
and,  with  no  particular  need  for  speech,  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  blew  clouds  of  smoke  at  the  ceil 
ing.  It  was  his  companion  who  interrupted  this 
mood. 

"The  life  that  people  think  so  tremendously 
important,"  she  observed,  "the  things  one  does, 
are  hardly  more  real  than  a  suit  of  clothes,  with 
religion  for  a  nice,  prim  white  collar,  gloves  for 
morals,  and  a  hidden  red  silk  handkerchief  for  a 
[237] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

rare  revolt.  And  all  the  time,  politely  ignored, 
decently  covered,  our  bodies  are  underneath. 
Now  and  then  some  one  slips  out  of  his  covering, 
and  stands  bare  before  his  shocked  and  protest 
ing  friends,  but  they  soon  hurry  something  about 
him,  a  conventional  shawl,  a  moral  sheet.  Do 
you  happen  to  remember  a  wonderful  caricature 
of  Louis  XIV — simply  a  wig,  a  silk  suit,  buckled 
shoes  and  a  staff?" 

The  mordant  humor  of  that  drawing  penetrated 
Anthony's  understanding :  he  saw  rooms,  streets,  a 
world  full  of  gesticulating  suits,  dresses,  nodding 
hats,  bonnets;  he  saw  the  unsubstantial  concourse 
haughtily  erect,  condescending,  cunningly  decep 
tive,  veiling  in  a  thousand  subterfuges  their  es 
sential  emptiness.  The  thought  evaporated  in 
laughter  at  the  obvious  humor  of  such  a  spectacle ; 
its  social  significance  missed  him  totally,  happily. 

"What  an  unthinking  person  you  are,"  she  told 
him;  "you  just — live.  It's  rather  remarkable — 
one  of  Bacchus'  company  caught  in  the  modern 
streets.  It  is  all  so  different  now,"  she  added 
plaintively;  "men  get  drunk  in  saloons  or  at  din- 
[238] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

ner,  and  the  purple  stain  of  the  grape  centers  in 
their  noses.  I  tried  myself,"  she  confessed,  "in 
Geneva.  I  was  with  a  specialist  who  had  father. 
The  cafe  balcony  overhung  the  lake;  it  was  at 
night,  and  the  villages  looked  like  clusters  of  fire 
flies  about  a  black  mirror;  and  you  simply  never 
saw  so  many  stars.  We  were  looking  for  a  lyric 
sensation,  but  it  was  the  most  awful  fizzle ;  he  in 
sisted  on  describing  an  operation  with  all  the  grey 
and  gory  details  complete,  and  I  fell  fast  asleep." 

The  outcome  of  her  experiment  tallied  exactly 
with  that  of  his  own  more  involuntary  efforts  in 
that  field.  It  established  in  his  mind  a  singularly 
direct  sympathy  with  her;  the  uneasy  element 
which  her  attitude  had  called  up  in  him  disap 
peared  entirely,  its  place  taken  by  a  comfortable 
sense  of  freedom,  a  total  lack  of  rot. 

She  rose,  vanishing  into  her  father's  room,  then, 
coming  to  the  door,  nodded  shortly,  and  left  for 
the  night. 

He  found  on  the  bureau  in  his  tower  room  what 
remained  of  the  fifty  dollars — it  had  been  re 
duced  to  less  than  eight.  Suddenly  he  remem- 
[239] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

bered  his  purpose  there,  his  supreme  need  of 
money,  the  imperative  westward  call.  ...  He 
bitterly  cursed  his  lax  character  as  he  recalled 
the  cigars  he  had  purchased,  the  silk  shirt  too, 
and  an  unnecessary  tie.  A  deep  gloom  settled 
upon  his  spirit.  He  heard  in  retrospect  his  fa 
ther's  clear,  high  voice — "shiftless,  no  sense  of  re 
sponsibility."  He  sat  miserably  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  in  the  dark,  while  the  petty,  unbroken  pro 
cession  of  past  failures  wheeled  through  his  brain. 
Then  the  shining  vision  of  Eliza,  compassionate, 
tender,  folded  him  in  peace ;  one  by  one  he  would 
subdue  those  rebellious  elements  in  himself,  of 
fate,  that  held  them  apart. 


[240] 


XLI 

AT  a  solitary  breakfast  the  incident  of  the 
preceding  night  seemed  fantastic,  unreal; 
he  retained  the  broken,  vivid  memory  of  the  scene, 
the  thrill  of  vague  words,  that  lingers  disturbingly 
into  the  waking  world  from  a  dream.  And,  when 
he  saw  Annot  later,  there  was  no  trace  of  a  con 
sequent  informality  in  her  manner;  she  was  dis 
tant,  hedged  about  by  an  evident  concern  for  her 
father.  "I  have  sent  for  Professor  Jamison." 
She  addressed  Anthony  with  blank  eyes.  "Please 
be  within  call  in  case — " 

He  saw  the  neurologist  as  the  latter  circled 
the  plaster  cupids  to  the  entrance  of  the  house — 
a  heavy  man  with  a  broad,  smooth  face,  thin- 
lipped  like  a  priest,  with  staring  yellow  gloves. 
Anthony  remained  in  the  lower  hall,  but  no  de 
mand  for  his  assistance  sounded  from  above. 
When  the  specialist  descended,  he  flashed  a  glance, 
[241] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

as  bitingly  swift  and  cold  as  glacial  water,  over  An 
thony,  then  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  garden. 

"Miss  Annot  tells  me  that  you  are  sleeping  in 
the  house,"  he  said  when  they  were  outside;  "on 
the  chance  that  she  might  need  you  for  her  father 
...  she  will.  He  is  at  the  point  of  mental  dis 
solution."  An  involuntary  repulsion  possessed 
Anthony  at  the  detached  manner  in  which  the 
other  pronounced  these  hopeless  words.  "Noth 
ing  may  be  done;  that  is — it  is  not  desirable  that 
anything  should.  I  am  telling  you  this  so  that 
you  can  act  intelligently.  Rufus  Hardinge  knows 
it;  there  was  a  consultation  at  Geneva,  which  he 
approved. 

"He  is,"  he  continued  with  a  warmer,  more  per 
sonal  note,  "a  very  distinguished  biologist;  his 
investigations,  his  conclusions,  have  been  inval 
uable."  ]j£  glanced  at  an  incongruous,  minute, 
jewelled  watch  on  his  wrist,  and  continued  more 
quickly.  "Ten  years  ago  he  should  have  stopped 
all  work,  vegetated — he  was  burning  up  rapidly; 
merely  a  reduced  amount  of  labor  would  have  ac 
complished  little  for  his  health  or  subject.  And 
[242] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

we  couldn't  spare  his  labor,  no  mere  prolonga 
tion  of  life  would  have  justified  that  loss  of  knowl 
edge,  progress.  It  was  his  position;  he  insisted 
upon  it  and  we  concurred  ...  he  chose  .  .  . 
insanity. 

"Miss  Annot  is  not  aware  of  this;  he  must  have 
every  moment  possible;  every  note  is  priceless. 
The  end  will  come — now,  at  any  time."  He  had 
reached  the  small,  canary  yellow  Dreux  landaulet 
waiting  for  him,  and  stepped  into  it  with  a  sharp 
nod.  "You  may  expect  violence,"  he  added,  as 
the  car  gathered  momentum. 

But  that  evening  in  the  dim  quietude  of  the 
piazza  the  biologist  seemed  to  have  recovered  com 
pletely  his  mental  poise.  He  spoke  in  a  buoyant 
vein  of  the  great  men  he  had  known,  celebrated 
names  in  the  world  of  the  arts,  in  politics  and 
science.  He  recalled  Braisted,  the  astronomer, 
searching  relaxation  in  the  Boulevard  school  of 
French  fictionists.  "I  told  him,"  he  chuckled  at 
the  mild,  scholastic  humor,  "that  he  had  been 
peeping  too  long  at  Venus." 

Annot  was  steeped  in  an  inscrutable  silence. 
[243] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

For  the  first  time,  Anthony  was  actually  aware 
of  her  features:  she  had  a  broad,  low  brow  swept 
by  the  coppery  hair  loosely  tied  at  the  back;  her 
eyes  resembled  her  father's,  they  were  amber-col 
ored,  and  singularly  candid  in  their  interest  in  all 
that  passed  before  them;  while  her  nose  tilted 
up  slightly  above  a  mouth  frankly  large.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  boy,  he  decided,  but  felt  instantly 
that  he  had  fallen  far  short  of  the  fact — the  al 
lurement,  the  perfection,  of  her  youthful  maturity 
hung  overwhelmingly  about  her  the  challenge  of 
sex. 

Rather,  she  was  all  girl,  he  recognized,  but  of  a 
new  variety.  A  vision  of  the  nice  girls  he  had 
known  dominated  his  vision,  flooded  his  mind, 
all  smiling  with  veiled  eyes,  clothed  in  a  thousand 
reserves,  fluttering  graces,  innocent  wiles,  with 
their  gaze  firmly  set  toward  the  shining,  desirable 
goal  of  matrimony.  Eliza  was  not  like  that,  it 
was  true;  but  she,  from  the  withdrawn,  imper 
sonal  height  of  her  cool  perfection,  was  a  law  to 
herself.  There  was  a  new  freedom  in  Annot's  ac 
ceptance  of  life,  he  realized  vaguely,  as  different 
[244] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

as  possible  from  mere  license ;  no  one,  he  was  cer 
tain,  would  presume  with  Annot  Hardinge:  her 
very  frankness  offered  infinitely  less  incentive  to 
unlawful  thoughts  than  the  conscious  modesty 
of  the  others. 

When  the  biologist  left  the  piazza  Annot  turned 
with  a  glad  gesture  to  her  companion.  "He 
hasn't  seemed  so  well — not  for  years;  his  little, 
gay  fun  again  .  .  .  it's  too  good  to  be  true.  I 
should  like  to  celebrate — something  entirely  irre 
sponsible.  I  have  worried,  oh,  dreadfully." 
The  night  was  still,  moonless;  the  stars  burned 
like  opals  in  the  intense  purple  deeps  of  the  sky. 
The  air,  freighted  with  the  rich  fruitage  of  full 
summer,  hung  close  and  heavy.  "It's  hot  as  a 
blotter,"  Annot  declared.  "I  think,  yes — I'm 
sure,  I  should  like  to  go  out  in  the  car."  She 
rose.  "Will  you  bring  it  around,  please?" 

He  drove  slowly  over  the  deserted  lane  by  the 
lawn,  and  found  her,  enveloped  in  the  lustrous 
folds  of  a  black  satin  wrap,  at  the  front  gate. 
Over  her  hair  she  had  tied  a  veil  drawn  about  her 
brow  in  a  webby  filament  of  flowers  "I  think 
[245] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

I'll  sit  in  front,"  she  decided;  "perhaps  I'll  drive.'1 
He  waited,  at  the  steering  wheel,  for  directions. 

"Go  west,  young  man,"  she  told  him,  and  would 
say  nothing  more.  A  distant  bell  thinly  struck 
eleven  jarring  notes  as  they  moved  into  the  flick 
ering  gloom  of  empty  streets  with  the  orange  blur 
of  lamps  floating  unsteadily  on  dim  boughs  above, 
and  the  more  brilliant,  crackling  radiance  of  the 
arc  lights  at  the  crossings. 

The  headlights  of  the  automobile  cut  like  white 
knives  through  the  obscurity  of  hedged  ways;  at 
sudden  turnings  they  plunged  into  gardens,  fling 
ing  sharply  on  the  shadowy  night  vivid  glimpses 
of  incredible  greenery,  unearthly  flowers,  wafers 
of  white  wall.  They  drove  for  a  long,  silent  pe 
riod,  with  increasing  momentum  as  the  way  be 
came  more  open  and  direct;  now  they  seemed 
scarcely  to  touch  the  uncertain  surface  below,  but 
to  be  wheeling  through  sheer  space,  flashing 
their  stabbing  incandescence  into  the  empty  en 
velopment  beyond  the  worlds. 

They  passed  with  a  muffled  din  through  the 
single  street  of  a  sleeping  village,  leaving  be- 
[246] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

hind  a  confusion  of  echoes  and  the  startled  bark 
ing  of  a  dog.  Anthony  could  see  Annot's  pro 
file,  pale  and  clear,  against  the  flying  and  form 
less  countryside;  the  lace  about  her  hair  fluttered 
ceaselessly;  and  her  wrap  bellowed  and  clung 
about  her  shoulders,  about  her  gloveless  hands 
folded  upon  her  slim  knees.  She  was  splendidly, 
regally  scornful  upon  the  wings  of  their  reckless 
flight;  the  throttle  was  wide  open;  they  swung 
from  side  to  side,  hung  on  a  single  wheel,  lunged 
bodily  into  the  air.  In  the  mad  ecstasy  of  speed 
she  rose;  but  Anthony,  clutching  her  arms,  pulled 
her  sharply  into  the  seat.  Then,  decisively,  he 
shut  off  the  power,  the  world  ceased  to  race  be 
hind  them,  the  smooth  clamor  of  the  engine  sank 
to  a  low  vibratone. 

"You  did  that  wonderfully,"  she  told  him  with 
glowing  cheeks,  shining  eyes;  "it  was  marvellous. 
A  moment  like  that  is  worth  a  life-time  on  foot 
.  .  .  laughing  at  death,  at  everything  that  is  safe, 
admirable,  moral  ...  a  moment  of  the  freedom 
of  soulless  things,  savage  and  unaccountable  to 
God  or  society." 

[247] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

The  illuminated  face  of  the  clock  before  him 
indicated  a  few  minutes  past  one,  and,  tenta 
tively,  he  repeated  the  time.  "How  stupid  of 
you,"  she  protested;  "silly,  little  footrule  of  the 
hours,  the  conventional  measure  of  the  common 
place.  For  punishment — on  and  on.  Like 
Columbus'  men  you  are  afraid  of  falling  over  the 
edge  of — propriety/'  She  turned  to  him  with 
solemn  eyes.  "I  assure  you  there  is  no  edge,  no 
bump  or  brimstone,  no  place  where  good  stops 
and  tumbles  into  bad;  it's  all  continuous — " 

He  lost  the  thread  of  her  mocking  discourse, 
and  glanced  swiftly  at  her,  his  brow  wrinkled, 
the  shadow  of  a  smile  upon  his  lips.  "Heavens! 
but  you  are  good-looking,"  she  acknowledged,  her 
countenance  studiously  critical,  impersonal. 
After  that  silence  once  more  fell  upon  them;  the 
machine  sang  through  the  dark,  lifting  over 
ridges,  dropping  down  declines. 

Anthony  had  long  since  lost  all  sense  of  their 
position.  The  cyanite  depths  of  the  sky  turned 
grey,  cold;  there  was  a  feeling  in  the  air  of  set 
tling  dew;  a  dank  mist  filled  the  hollows;  the 
[248] 


\ 

THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

color  seemed  suddenly  to  have  faded  from  the 
world.  He  felt  unaccountably  weary,  inexpres 
sibly  depressed ;  he  could  almost  taste  the  vapidity 
of  further  existence.  Annot's  hard,  bright  words 
echoed  in  his  brain;  the  flame  of  his  unthinking 
idealism  sank  in  the  thin  atmosphere  of  their 
logic. 


[249] 


XLII 


SHE  had  settled  low  in  the  seat,  her  mouth 
and  chin  hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  satin 
wrap;  her  face  seemed  as  chill  as  marble,  her 
youth  cruel,  disdainful.  But  her  undeniable 
courage  commanded  his  admiration,  the  unwav 
ering  gaze  of  her  eyes  into  the  dark.  He  won 
dered  if,  back  of  her  crisp  defenses,  she  were 
happy.  He  knew  from  observation  that  she  led 
an  almost  isolated  existence  ...  she  had  gath 
ered  about  her  no  circle  of  her  own  age,  she  in 
dulged  in  none  of  the  rapturous  confidences, 
friendships,  so  sustaining  to  other  girls.  The  pe 
culiar  necessities  of  her  father  had  accomplished 
this.  Yet  he  was  aware  that  she  cherished  a  gen 
eral  contempt  for  youth  at  large,  for  a  majority 
of  the  grown,  for  that  matter.  Contempt  colored 
her  attitude  to  a  large  extent:  that  and  happiness 
did  not  seem  an  orderly  pair. 
[250] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  influence  of  the 
dawn  behind  him;  it  was  as  though  the  grey  air 
grew  more  transparent.  Annot  twisted  about. 
"Oh!  turn,  turn!"  she  cried;  "the  day!  we  are 
driving  away  from  it."  A  sudden  intoxicating 
freshness  streamed  like  a  sparkling  birdsong  over 
the  world,  and  Anthony's  dejection  vanished  with 
the  gloom  now  at  their  backs.  Delicate  lavender 
shadows  grew  visible  upon  the  grass,  the  color 
shifted  tremulously,  like  the  shot  hues  of  change 
able  silks,  until  the  sun  poured  its  ore  into  the  ver 
dant  crucible  of  the  countryside. 

"I  am  most  frightfully  hungry,"  Annot  ad 
mitted  with  that  entire  frankness  which  he  found 
so  refreshing.  "I  wonder — "  On  either  hand 
fields,  far  farmhouses,  reached  unbroken  to  the 
horizon;  before  them  the  road  rose  between  banks 
of  soft,  brown  loam,  apparently  into  the  sky. 
But,  beyond  the  rise,  they  came  upon  a  roadside 
store,  its  silvery  boards  plastered  with  the  garish 
advertisements  of  tobaccos,  and  a  rickety  porch, 
now  undergoing  a  vigorous  sweeping  at  the  hands 
of  an  old  man  with  insecure  legs,  upon  whose 
[251] 


- 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

faded  personage  was  stamped  unmistakably  the 
initials  "G.  A.  R." 

Anthony  brought  the  car  to  a  halt,  and  re 
turned  his  brisk  and  curious  salutation.  "Shall 
I  bring  out  some  crackers?"  he  asked  from  the 
road.  But  she  elected  to  follow  him  into  the 
store.  The  interior  presented  the  usual  confusion 
of  gleaming  tin  and  blue  overalls,  monumental 
cheeses  and  cards  of  buttons,  a  miscellany  of 
ludicrously  varied  merchandise.  Annot  found  a 
seat  upon  a  splintered  church  pew,  now  utilized 
as  a  secular  resting  place,  while  Anthony  foraged 
through  the  shelves.  He  returned  with  the 
crackers,  and  a  gold  lump  of  dates,  upon  which 
they  breakfasted  hugely.  "D'y  like  some  milk?" 
the  aged  attendant  inquired,  and  forthwith  dipped 
it  out  of  a  deep,  cool  and  ringing  can. 

Afterward  they  sat  upon  the  step  and  smoked 
matutinal  cigarettes.  The  day  gathered  in  a 
shimmering  haze  above  the  vivid  corn,  the  emer 
ald  of  the  shorn  fields ;  the  birds  had  already  sub 
sided  from  the  heat  among  the  leaves.  Anthony 
saw  that  the  lamps  of  the  car  were  still  alight, 
[252] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

a  feeble  yellow  flicker,  and  turned  them  out.  He 
tested  the  engine;  and,  finding  it  still  running, 
turned  with  an  unspoken  query  to  Annot.  She 
rose  slowly. 

The  wrap  slipped  from  her  bare  shoulders  and 
her  dinner  gown  with  its  high  sulphur  girdle, 
the  scrap  of  black  lace  about  her  hair,  presented 
a  strange,  brilliantly  artificial  picture  against  the 
blistered,  gaunt  boards  of  the  store,  with,  at  its 
back,  the  open  sunny  space  of  pasture,  wood  and 
sky. 

"It's  barely  twenty  miles  back,"  she  told  him, 
once  more  settled  at  his  side.  The  old  man  re 
garded  them  from  under  one  gnarled  palm,  the 
other  tightly  clasped  about  the  broom  handle;  his 
jaw  was  dropped;  incredulity,  senile  surprise, 
claimed  him  for  their  own. 

With  Annot,  Anthony  reflected,  he  was  ever 
lastingly  getting  into  new  situations;  she  seemed 
to  lift  him  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  events 
into  a  perverse  world  of  her  own,  a  front-back 
ward  land  where  the  unexpected,  without  rule  or 
obligation,  continually  happened ;  and,  what  was 
[253] 


I 

THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

strangest  of  all,  without  any  of  the  dark  conse 
quences  which  he  had  been  taught  must  inevitably 
follow  such  departures.  He  recalled  the  incred 
ulous  smiles,  the  knowing  insinuations,  that  would 
have  greeted  the  exact  recounting  of  the  past  night 
at  Doctor  Allhop's  drugstore.  He  would  him 
self,  in  the  past,  have  regarded  such  a  tale  as  a 
flimsy  fabrication.  And  suddenly  he  perceived 
dimly,  in  a  mind  unused  to  such  abstractions,  the 
veil  of  ugliness,  of  degradation,  that  hung  so 
blackly  about  the  thoughts  of  men.  He  gazed 
with  a  new  sympathy  and  comprehension  at  the 
scornful  line  of  Annot's  vivid  young  lips;  some 
thing  of  her  superiority,  her  contempt,  was  com 
municated  to  him. 

She  became  aware  of  his  searching  gaze,  and 
smiled  in  an  intimate,  friendly  fashion  at  him. 
"You  are  the  most  comfortable  person  alive,"  she 
told  him.  There  was  nothing  critical  in  her  tones 
now.  "I  said  that  you  were  not  a  good  chauffeur, 
and — "  the  surroundings  grew  familiar,  they  had 
nearly  reached  their  destination,  and  an  impalpa 
ble  reserve  fell  upon  her,  but  she  continued  to 
[254] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

smile  at  him,  "and  .  .  .  you  are  not."     That 
was  the  last  word  she  addressed  to  him  that  day. 

As,  later,  he  sluiced  the  automobile  with  water, 
he  recalled  the  strange  intimacy  of  the  night,  her 
warm  and  sympathetic  voice ;  once  she  had  stead 
ied  herself  with  a  clinging  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der.  These  new  attributes  of  the  person  who, 
shortly,  passed  him  silently  and  with  cold  eyes, 
stirred  his  imagination;  they  were  potent,  rare, 
unsettling. 


[255] 


XLIII 

X  TOTWITHSTANDING,  in  the  days  which 
JL  i  followed  there  was  a  perceptible  change  in 
Annot's  attitude  toward  him:  she  became,  as  it 
were,  conscious  of  his  actuality.  One  afternoon 
she  read  aloud  to  him  a  richly-toned,  gloomy  tale 
of  Africa.  They  were  sitting  by  a  long  window, 
open,  but  screened  from  the  summer  heat  by  stiff, 
darkly-drooping  green  folds,  where  they  could 
hear  the  drip  of  the  fountain  in  its  basin,  a  cool 
punctuation  on  the  sultry  page  of  the  afternoon. 
Annot  proceeded  rapidly  in  an  even,  low  voice; 
she  was  dressed  in  filmy  lavender,  with  little  but 
tons  of  golden  velvet,  an  intricately  carved  gold 
buckle  at  her  waist. 

Anthony  listened  as  closely  as  possible,  the 

faint  smile  which  seldom  left  him  hovering  over 

his  lips.     The  bald  action  of  the  narrative — a 

running  fight  with  ambushed  savages  from  a  little 

[256] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

tin  pot  of  a  steamer,  a  mysterious  affair  in  the 
darkness  with  a  grim  skeleton  of  a  fellow,  stakes 
which  bore  a  gory  fruitage  of  human  heads,  held 
him;  but  the  rest  .  .  .  words,  words.  His  at 
tention  wavered,  fell  upon  minute,  material  ob 
jects;  Annot's  voice  grew  remote,  returned,  was 
lost  among  his  juggling  thoughts. 

"Isn't  it  splendid! "  she  exclaimed,  at  last  clos 
ing  the  volume;  "the  most  beautiful  story  of  our 
time — "  She  stopped  abruptly,  and  cast  a  pene 
trating  glance  at  him.  "I  don't  believe  you  even 
listened,"  she  declared.  "In  your  heart  you  pre 
fer,  Tortured  by  the  Tartars.'  " 

His  smile  broadened,  including  his  eyes. 

"You  are  impossible!  No,"  she  veered  sud 
denly,  "you're  not;  if  you  cared  for  this  you 
wouldn't  be  ...  you.  That's  the  most  impor 
tant  thing  in  the  world.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  like 
you;  everybody  reads  now,  it's  frightfully  com 
mon;  while  you  are  truly  indifferent.  Have  you 
noticed,  my  child,  that  books  always  increase 
where  life  runs  thin?  and  you  are  alive,  not  a  pa 
pier-mache  man  painted  in  the  latest  shades." 
[257] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

Anthony  dwelt  on  this  unexpected  angle  upon 
his  mental  delinquencies.  The  approval  of  An- 
not  Hardinge,  so  critical,  so  outspoken,  was  not 
without  an  answering  glow  in  his  being;  no  one 
but  she  might  discover  his  ignorance  to  be  laud 
able. 

She  rose,  and  the  book  slipped  neglected  to  the 
floor.  "The  mirror  of  my  dressing  table  is  col 
lapsing,"  she  informed  him;  "I  wonder  if  you 
would  look  at  it."  He  followed  her  above  to  her 
room;  it  was  a  large,  four-square  chamber,  its 
windows  brushed  by  the  glossy  leaves  of  an  aged 
black-heart  cherry  tree.  Her  bed  was  small,  with 
a  counterpane  of  grotesque  lace  animals,  a  table 
held  a  scattered  collection  of  costly  trifles,  and  a 
closet  door  stood  open  upon  a  shimmering  array 
from  deepest  orange  to  white  and  pale  primrose. 
An  enigmatic  lacy  garment,  and  a  surprisingly 
long  pair  of  black  silk  stockings,  occupied  a 
chair ;  while  the  table  was  covered  with  columns  of 
print  on  long  sheets  of  paper.  " Galleys,"  she 
told  him.  "I  read  all  father's  proof." 

He  moved  the  dressing  table  from  the  wall,  and 
[258] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

discovered  the  bolt  which  had  held  the  mirror  in 
place  upon  the  floor.  As  he  screwed  it  into  po 
sition,  Annot  said: 

"Don't  look  around  for  a  minute."  There  was 
a  swift  whisper  of  skirts,  a  pause,  then,  "all 
right."  He  straightened  up,  and  found  that  she 
had  changed  to  a  white  skirt  and  waist.  Fum 
bling  in  the  closet  she  produced  a  pair  of  low, 
brown  shoes,  and  kicking  off  her  slippers,  donned 
the  others,  balancing  each  in  turn  on  the  bed. 

"Let's  go — anywhere,"  she  proposed;  "but 
principally  where  books  are  not  and  birds  are." 
At  a  drugstore  they  purchased  largely  of  licorice 
root,  which  they  consumed  sitting  upon  a  fence 
without  the  town. 


[259] 


XLIV 

4  4  T  SAID  that  instinctively,  back  in  my  room," 
X  Annot  remarked  with  a  puzzled  frown. 
"It  was  beastly,  really,  to  feel  the  necessity  .  .  . 
as  though  we  had  something  corrupt  to  hide. 
And  I  feel  that  you  are  especially  nice — that  way. 
You  see,  I  am  not  trying  to  dispose  of  myself  like 
the  clever  maidens  at  the  balls  and  bazaars,  my 
legs  and  shoulders  are  quite  uncalculated.  There 
is  no  price  on  ...  on  my  person;  I'm  not  fish 
ing  for  any  nice  little  Christian  ceremony.  No 
man  will  have  to  pay  the  price  of  hats  at  Easter 
and  furs  in  the  fall,  of  eternal  boredom,  for  me. 
All  this  stuff  in  the  novels  about  the  sacredness 
of  love  and  constancy  is  just — stuff !  Love  isn't 
like  that  really;  it's  a  natural  force,  and  Nature 
is  always  practical :  potato  bugs  and  jimson-weed 
and  men,  it  is  the  same  law  for  all  of  them — more 
potato  bugs,  more  men,  that's  all." 
[260] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

Anthony  grasped  only  the  larger  implications 
of  this  speech,  its  opposition  to  that  love  which 
he  had  felt  as  a  misty  sort  of  glory,  as  intangible 
as  the  farthest  star,  as  fragrant  as  a  rose  in  the 
fingers.  There  was  an  undeniable  weight  of 
solid  sense  in  what  Annot  had  said.  She  knew 
a  great  deal  more  than  himself,  more — yes — than 
Eliza,  more  than  anybody  he  had  before  known; 
and,  in  the  face  of  her  overwhelmingly  calm  and 
superior  knowledge,  his  vision  of  love  as  eternal, 
changeless,  his  ecstatic  dreams  of  Eliza  with  the 
dim,  magic  white  lilacs  in  her  arms,  grew  uncer 
tain,  pale.  Love,  viewed  with  Annot's  clear  eyes, 
was  a  commonplace  occurrence,  and  marriage  the 
merest,  material  convenience:  there  was  nothing 
sacred  about  4t,  or  in  anything — death,  birth,  or 
herself. 

And  was  not  the  biologist,  with  his  rows  of 
labelled  plants  and  bones,  his  courageous  ques 
tioning  of  the  universe,  of  God  Himself,  bigger 
than  the  majority  of  men  with  their  thin  covering 
of  cant,  the  hypocrisy  in  which  they  cloaked  their  - 
doubts,  their  crooked  politics  and  business?  Ru- 
[261] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

fus  Hardinge's  conception  of  things,  Annot's  rea 
soning  and  patent  honesty,  seemed  more  probable, 
more  convincing,  than  the  accepted  romantic,  often 
insincere,  view  of  living,  than  the  organ-roll  and 
stained  glass  attitude. 

In  his  new  rationalism  he  eyed  the  world  with 
gloomy  prescience ;  he  had  within  him  the  somber 
sense  of  slain  illusions;  all  this,  he  felt,  was 
proper  to  increasing  years  and  experience;  yet, 
between  them,  they  emptied  the  notable  bag  of 
licorice. 

Annot  rested  a  firm  palm  upon  his  shoulder 
and  sprang  to  the  ground,  and  they  walked  di 
rectly  and  silently  back.  "It's  a  mistake  to  dis 
cuss  things,"  Annot  discovered  to  him  from  the 
door  of  her  room,  "they  should  be  lived;  thus 
Zarathustrina." 


[262] 


XLV 

LATER  they  were  driven  from  the  porch  by 
a  heavy  and  sudden  shower,  a  dark  flood 
torn  in  white  streamers  and  pennants  by  wind 
gusts,  and  entered  through  a  long  window  a  for 
mal  chamber  seldom  occupied.  A  thick,  white 
carpet  bore  a  scattered  design  in  pink  and  china 
blue ;  oil  paintings  of  the  Dutch  school,  as  smooth 
as  ice,  hung  in  massive  gold  frames ;  a  Louis  XVI 
clock,  intricately  carved  and  gilded,  rested  upon 
a  stand  enamelled  in  black  and  vermilion,  inlaid 
with  pagodas  and  fantastic  mandarins  in  ebony 
and  mother-of-pearl  and  camphor  wood.  At  in 
tervals  petulant  and  sweet  chimes  rang  from  the 
clock :  trailing,  silvery  bubbles  of  sound  that  burst 
in  plaintive  ripples. 

Rufus  Hardinge  sat  with  bowed  head,  his  lips 

moving  noiselessly.     Annot  occupied  a  chair  with 

sweeping,  yellow  lines,  that  somehow  suggested 

to  Anthony  a  swan.     "Father  has  had  a  tiresome 

[263] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

letter  from  Doctor  Grundlowe  at  Bonn,"  she  in 
formed  the  younger  man. 

"He  disagrees  with  me  absolutely,"  Hardinge 
declared.  "But  Caprera  at  Padova  disagrees 
with  him;  and  Markley,  at  Glasgow,  contravenes 
us  all." 

"It's  about  a  tooth,"  Annot  explained. 

"The  line  to  the  anterior-posterior  diameter  is 
simian,"  the  biologist  asserted.  "The  cusps  prove 
nothing,  but  that  forward  slope — "  he  half  rose 
from  his  chair,  his  eyes  glittering  wrathfully  at 
Anthony,  but  fell  back  trembling  .  .  .  "simian," 
he  muttered. 

"A  possible  difference  of  millions  of  years  in 
human  history,"  Annot  added  further. 

"But  can't  they  agree  at  all!"  Anthony  ex 
claimed;  "don't  they  know  anything?  That's 
an  awful  long  time." 

"A  hundred  million  years,"  the  elder  inter 
rupted  with  a  contemptuous  gesture,  "nothing,  a 
moment.  I  place  the  final  glacial  two  hundred 
and  seventy  million  after  Jenner,  and  we  have 
agreed  to  dismiss  it;  trifling,  adventitious. 
[264] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

There  are  more  fundamental  discrepancies/'  he 
admitted.  "Unless  something  definite  is  discov 
ered,  a  firm  base  established,  a  single  ray  of  light 
let  into  a  damnable  dark,"  he  stopped  torn  with 
febrile  excitement,  then,  scarcely  audible,  con 
tinued,  aour  lives,  our  work  .  .  .  will  be  of  less 
account  than  the  blood  of  Oadacer,  spilt  on  bar 
baric  battle-fields." 

The  rain  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
Anthony  followed  Annot  to  the  porch.  In  the 
black  spaces  between  the  swiftly  shifting  clouds 
stars  shone  brilliantly;  there  was  a  faint  drip 
from  the  trees.  "He  gets  dreadfully  depressed," 
she  interpreted  her  parent  to  him.  "They  wran 
gle  all  the  time,  exactly  like  a  lot  of  schoolgirls. 
You  have  no  idea  of  the  bitterness,  the  jealousy, 
the  contemptuous  personalities  in  the  Quarterlies. 
Really,  they  are  as  fanatical,  as  narrow,  as  the 
churches  they  ignore;  they  are  quite  like  Presby 
terian  biologists  and  Catholic."  She  sighed 
lightly.  "They  leave  little  for  a  youngish  per 
son  to  dream  on.  You  are  so  superior — to  ignore 
these  centessimo  affairs.  Will  you  lean  from  the 
[265] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

edge  of  your  cloud  and  smile  on  a  daughter  of 
the  earth  in  last  year's  dinner  gown?" 

It  was,  he  told  himself,  nonsense;  yet  he  was 
moved  to  make  no  easy  reply,  something  in  her 
voice,  illusive  and  wistful,  made  that  impossible. 
"It's  very  good-looking,"  he  said  impotently. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  told  him  simply. 
"M'sieur  Paret  fitted  it  himself  while  an  ante 
room  full  of  women  hated  me.  Oh,  Anthony!" 
she  exclaimed,  "I'd  love  to  wander  with  you  down 
that  brilliant  street  and  through  the  Place  Ven- 
dome  to  the  Seine.  Better  still — there's  a  little 
shop  on  the  Via  Cavour  in  Florence  where  they 
sell  nothing  but  chocolate,  chocolate,  chocolate,  the 
most  heavenly  cakes  with  black  hearts  and  the 
most  heavenly  smell.  And  you'd  like  Spain,  so 
fierce  and  hot  against  its  dusty  hills ;  and  Cortina, 
green  beneath  its  red  mountains.  We  could  get 
a  porter  and  rucksacks,  and  walk — "  she  broke 
off,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks,  a  dawning 
dismay  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  was  gone  with  a 
flutter  of  the  skirt  so  carefully  draped  by  M'sieur 
Paret. 

[266] 


XLVI 

THE  pictures  of  far  places  had  stirred  him 
but  slightly:  but  to  travel  with  Annot,  to 
see  anything  with  Annot,  would  offer  continual 
amusement  and  surprise;  her  vigorous  candor, 
her  freedom  from  sham  and  petty  considerations, 
enveloped  the  most  commonplace  perspectives  in 
an  atmosphere  of  high  novelty.  The  trace  of  the 
vagabond,  the  detachment  of  the  born  dweller  in 
tents,  woven  so  picturesquely  through  his  being, 
responded  to  her  careless  indifference  to  the 
tyranny  of  an  established  and  timid  scheme  of 
existence. 

The  following  day  her  old,  bright  hardness  had 
returned:  she  railed  at  him  in  French,  in  German, 
in  Italian;  she  called  him  the  solemn  shover,  Sir 
Anthony  Absolute.  And,  holding  Thomas  Hux 
ley's  head  directed  toward  him,  recommended 
that  resigned  quadruped  to  emulate  Anthony's 
austere  and  inflexible  virtues. 
[267] 


XLVII 

BUT  there  was  no  trace  of  gayety  in  the  ex 
cited  and  subdued  tones  in  which,  later,  she 
called  him  into  the  hothouse.  He  found  her  bend 
ing  tense  with  emotion  over  the  row  of  plants 
upon  whose  flowering  such  incalculable  things  de 
pended.  "Look !  "  she  cried,  taking  his  hand  and 
drawing  him  down  over  the  green  shoots,  where 
his  cheek  brushed  her  hair,  where  he  felt  the  warm 
stir  of  her  breathing.  "Look!  they  are  in  full 
bud,  to-morrow  they  will  burst  open."  She 
straightened  up,  his  hand  still  held  in  hers,  and  a 
shadow  fell  upon  her  vivid  countenance.  "If  his 
reasoning  is  wrong,  this  experiment  .  .  .  like  all 
the  others,  it  will  kill  him.  They  must  be  white, 
it  would  be  too  cruel,  too  senseless  not.  I  am 
afraid,"  she  said  simply;  "nature  is  so  terrible,  a 
Juggernaut,  crushing  everything  to  dust  beneath 
its  wheeling  centuries.  I  am  glad  that  you  are 
[268] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

here,  Anthony."  She  drew  closer  to  him;  her 
breast  swelled  in  a  sharp,  tempestuous  breath. 

"I  have  been  lonelier  than  I — I  realized.  I  am 
dreadfully  worried  at>out  father.  They  have  lied 
to  me;  things  are  worse,  I  can  see  that.  You 
have  to  dress  him  like  a  child;  I  know  how  con 
siderate  you  are;  you  are  bright,  new  gold  with 
the  clearest  ring  in  the  world. 

"We  must  get  a  real  chauffeur;  you  have  never 
been  that  ...  in  my  thoughts.  You  know,"  she 
laughed  happily,  "I  said  in  the  beginning  that 
you  were  a  miserable  affair  in  details  of  that 
kind." 

A  feeling  of  guilt  rose  swiftly  within  him, 
which,  unwilling  to  acknowledge,  he  strove  to 
beat  down  from  his  thoughts.  But,  above  his 
endeavor,  grew  the  clear  conviction  that  he  should 
immediately  tell  Annot  his  purpose  in  driving 
Rufus  Hardinge's  car.  He  must  not  victimize 
her  generosity,  nor  take  profit  from  the  friend 
ship  she  offered  him  so  unreservedly.  He  was 
dimly  conscious  that  the  revelation  of  his  design 
would  end  the  pleasant  intimacy  growing  up  be- 
[269] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

tween  them;  the  mere  mention  of  Eliza  must  de 
stroy  their  happy  relations;  girls,  even  Annot, 
were  like  that. 

He  wondered,  suddenly  cold,  if  this  spelled  dis 
loyalty  to  Eliza !  but  he  angrily  refuted  that  whis 
pered  insinuation.  His  love  for  Eliza  was  as  un- 
assailably  above  all  other  considerations  as  she 
herself  shone  starlike  over  a  petty,  stumbling  hu 
manity.  White  and  withdrawn  and  fine  she  in 
habited  the  skies  of  his  aspirations.  He  en 
deavored  now  to  capture  her  in  his  imagination, 
his  memory;  and  she  smiled  at  him  palely,  as 
from  a  very  great  distance.  He  realized  that  in 
the  past  few  days  he  had  not  had  that  subtle 
sense  of  her  nearness,  he  had  not  been  conscious 
of  that  drifting  odor  of  lilacs;  and  suddenly  he 
felt  impoverished,  alone. 

Annot  smiled,  warm  and  near. 

"You  are  awfully  kind,"  he  temporized;  "but 
hadn't  we  better  let  the  thing  stand  as  it  is?  You 
see — I  want  money." 

"But  you  may  have  that  now;  whatever  you 
want." 

[270] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

"No.  You  are  so  good,  it's  hard  to  explain — 
I  want  money  that  I  earn ;  real  money ;  I  couldn't 
think  of  taking  any  other  from  you." 

"Anthony,  my  good  bourgeois !  I  had  thought 
you  quite  without  that  sort  of  tin  pride.  Besides, 
I  am  not  giving  it  to  you;  after  all  it's  father's  to 
use  as  he  likes." 

"But  I  must  give  him  something  for  it — " 

"Do  you  suppose  you  are  giving  us  nothing?" 
she  interrupted  him  warmly;  "you  have  brought 
us  your  clear,  beautiful  spirits,  absolutely  without 
price.  Why,  you  can  make  father  laugh;  have 
you  any  idea  how  rarely  he  did  that  ?  When  you 
imitate  Margaret  absolutely  I  can  see  her  fat, 
white  stockings.  And  your  marvellous  unworld- 
liness — "  she  shook  her  head  mournfully.  "I 
fear  that  this  is  mere  calculation;  surely  you  must 
know  the  value  of  your  innocent  charms." 

Anthony  stood  with  a  lowered  head,  floundering 
mentally  among  his  warring  inclinations;  when, 
almost  with  relief,  he  saw  that  she  had  noiselessly 
vanished. 

[271] 


XLVIII 

HE  slept  uneasily,  and  woke  abruptly  to  a 
room  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  an  un 
accountable  sense  of  something  gone  wrong.  He 
dressed  hurriedly,  and  had  opened  his  door,  when 
he  heard  his  name  called  from  below.  It  was 
Annot,  he  knew,  but  her  voice  was  strange,  terri 
fied — a  helpless  cry  new  to  her  accustomed  poise. 
"Anthony!  Anthony! "  she  called  from  the  con 
servatory. 

Rufus  Hardinge,  who,  it  was  evident  from  his 
clothes  had  not  been  in  bed,  was  standing  rigidly 
before  the  row  of  plants  upon  whose  flowering 
they  had  so  intently  waited.  And,  in  a  rapid 
glance,  Anthony  saw  that  they  had  blossomed  in 
delicate,  parti-colored  petals — some  pale  lavender, 
others  deep  purple,  still  others  reddish  white. 
Annot's  yellow  wrap  was  thrown  carelessly  about 
her  nightgown,  her  feet  were  bare,  and  her  hair 
[272] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

hung    in    a    tangle    about    her   blanched    face. 

When  Anthony  entered  she  clung  to  his  arm, 
and  he  saw  that  she  was  trembling  violently.  For 
a  tense  moment  they  were  silent :  the  sun  streamed 
over  the  mathematical  plant  ranks  and  lit  the 
white  or  blue  tickets  tied  to  their  stems;  a  bub 
bling  chorus  of  birds  filled  the  world  of  leaves 
without.  "It's  all  wrong/'  she  sobbed. 

"So!"  the  biologist  finally  said  with  a  wry 
smile;  "you  see  that  I  have  not  solved  the  riddle 
of  the  universe;  inheritance  in  pure  line  is  not 
explicated.  ...  A  life  of  labor  as  void  as  any 
prostitute's;  not  a  single  fact,  not  a  supposition 
warranted,  not  a  foot  advanced." 

With  a  sudden  and  violent  movement  for  which 
they  were  entirely  unprepared  he  swept  the  row 
of  plants  crashing  upon  the  floor;  where,  in  a 
scattered  heap  of  brown  loam,  broken  pottery, 
smeared  bloom,  their  tenuous,  pallid  roots  quiv 
ered  in  air.  "Games  with  plants  and  animals 
and  bones  for  elderly  children;  riddles  without 
answer  .  .  .  blind  ways."  His  expression  grew 
furtive,  cunning.  "I  have  been  trifled  with,"  he 
[273] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

declared,  "I  have  been  deliberately  misled;  but  I 
desire  to  say  that  I  see  through — through  Him: 
I  comprehend  His  little  joke.  It's  in  bad  taste 
...  to  leave  a  soul  in  the  dark,  blundering  about 
in  the  cellar  with  the  table  spread  above.  But  in 
the  end  I  was  not  completely  bamboozled.  He 
was  not  quick  enough  ...  the  hem  of  His  gar 
ment. 

"Your  mother  saw  Him  clear.  She  was  con 
sidered  beautiful,  but  beauty's  a  vague  term. 
Perhaps  if  I  saw  her  now  it  would  be  clearer  to 
me.  But  I'll  tell  you  His  little  joke,"  he  lowered 
his  voice  confidentially — "it's  all  true — that 
apocalyptical  heaven;  there's  a  big  book, 
trumpets,  angels  all  complete  singing  Gregorian 
chants.  What  a  sell!"  He  laughed,  a  gritty, 
mirthless  performance. 

"Come  up  to  your  room,  father,"  Annot  urged; 
"his  arm,  Anthony."  Anthony  placed  his  hand 
gently  upon  the  biologist's  shoulder,  but  the  latter 
wrenched  himself  free.  Suddenly  with  a  choked 
cry  and  arms  swinging  like  flails  he  launched 
himself  upon  the  orderly  plants.  Before  he  could 
[274] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

be  stopped  row  upon  row  splintered  on  the  floor; 
he  fought,  struggled  with  them  as  though  they 
were  animate  opponents,  cursed  them  in  a  high, 
raving  voice.  Anthony  quickly  lifted  him,  pin 
ning  his  arms  to  his  sides.  Annot  had  turned 
away,  her  shoulders  shaking  with  sobs. 

Rufus  Hardinge's  struggling  unexpectedly 
ceased,  his  countenance  regained  completely  its 
habitual  quietude.  "I  shall  begin  once  more,  at 
the  beginning,"  he  whispered  infinitely  wistful. 
"The  little  ray  of  light  .  .  .  germ  of  understand 
ing.  The  scientific  problem  of  the  future,"  his 
speech  became  labored,  thick,  "scientific  ...  fu 
ture.  Other  avenue  of  progress : 

"Gentlemen,  the  Royal  Society,  a  paper  on,  on 
— Tears,  gentlemen  .  .  .  not  only  automatic," 
his  voice  sank  to  a  mere  incomprehensible  babble. 
Anthony  carried  him  to  his  bed,  while  Annot  tele 
phoned  for  the  neurologist. 

After  the  specialist  had  gone  Annot  came  in 

to  where  Anthony  waited  in  the  study.     Her  feet 

were  thrust  in  the  Turkish  slippers,  her  hair 

twisted  into  a  hasty  knot,  but  otherwise  she  had 

[275] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

not  changed.  She  came  swiftly,  with  pale  lips 
and  eyes  brilliantly  shining  from  dark  hollows, 
to  his  side.  "His  wonderful  brain  is  dead,"  she 
told  him.  "Professor  Jamison  thinks  there  will 
be  only  a  few  empty  years  to  the  end.  But  ac 
tually  it's  all  over."  In  a  manner  utterly  incom 
prehensible  to  him  she  was  crying  softly  in  his 
arms. 

He  must  lead  her  to  a  chair,  he  told  himself, 
release  her  at  once.  Yet  she  remained  with  her 
warm,  young  body  pressed  against  him,  the  circle 
of  her  arms  about  his  neck,  her  tears  wet  upon  his 
cheek.  He  stepped  back,  but  she  would  have 
fallen  if  he  had  not  continued  to  support  her. 
His  brain  whirled  under  the  assault,  the  sur 
render,  of  her  dynamic  youth.  Their  mouths 
met;  were  bruised  in  kissing. 


[276] 


XLIX 

HE  stood  with  bowed  shoulders,  twisting 
lips;  and,  after  a  momentary  pause,  she 
fled  from  the  room.  Cold  waves  of  self-hatred 
flowed  over  him — he  had  taken  a  despicable  ad 
vantage  of  her  grief.  The  pleasant  fabric  of  the 
past,  unthinking  days,  the  new  materialism  with 
its  comfortable  freedom  from  restraint,  crumbled 
from  an  old,  old  skeleton  whose  moldering  lines 
spelled  the  death  of  all — his  heart  knew — that 
was  high,  desirable,  immaculate.  He  wondered 
if,  like  Rufus  Hardinge,  his  understanding  had 
come  too  late.  But,  in  the  re-surge  of  his  adora 
tion  for  Eliza,  infinitely  more  beautiful  and  serene 
from  the  pit  out  of  which  he  sped  his  vision,  he 
was  possessed  by  the  conviction  that  nothing 
created  nor  void  should  extinguish  the  bright 
flame  of  his  passion,  hold  them  separate. 

In  the  midst  of  his  turmoil  he  recalled  Eliza 
[277] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

with  relief,  with  delight,  with  tumultuous  longing. 
He  soared  on  the  wings  of  his  ecstasy;  but  de 
scended  abruptly  to  the  practical  necessities  which 
confronted  him.  He  must  leave  the  Hardinges 
immediately;  with  a  swift  touch  of  the  humorous 
spirit  native  to  him,  he  realized  that  again  he 
would  be  without  money.  Then  more  seriously 
he  considered  his  coming  interview  with  Annot. 
The  house  was  charged  with  the  vague  unrest, 
the  strange  aspect  of  familiar  things,  wrought  by 
serious  illness.  Luncheon  was  disorganized,  An 
not  was  late.  She  was  pale,  but,  under  an  obvious 
concern,  she  radiated  a  suppressed  content.  She 
laid  a  letter  before  Anthony.  " Registered,"  she 
told  him.  "I  signed."  It  was,  he  saw,  from 
his  father,  and  he  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  in 
tent  upon  the  explanation  which  lay  before  him. 
It  would  be  more  difficult  even  than  he  had  antici 
pated:  Annot  spoke  of  the  near  prospect  of  a 
Mediterranean  trip,  if  Rufus  Hardinge  rallied 
sufficiently.  "He  is  as  contented  and  gentle  as  a 
nice  old  lady,"  she  reported;  then,  with  a  subtle 
expansion  of  manner,  "it  will  be  such  fun — I 
[278] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

shall  take  you  by  the  hand,  'This,  my  good  in 
fant,  is  one  of  Virgil's  final  resting  places.  .  .  .'  " 

"That  would  be  splendid,"  he  acknowledged, 
"but  I'm  afraid  that  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  go.  The 
fact  is  that — that  I  had  better  leave  you.  I  can't 
take  your  money  for  .  .  .  for  ..." 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly,  under  the  shadow 
of  a  frown,  then  shook  her  head  at  him.  "That 
tiresome  money  again!  It's  a  strange  thing  for 
you  to  insist  on;  material  considerations  are  ordi 
narily  as  far  as  possible  from  your  thoughts.  I 
forbid  you  absolutely  to  mention  it  again;  every 
time  you  do  I  shall  punish  you — I  shall  present 
you  with  a  humiliating  gold  piece  in  person." 

"I  should  be  all  kinds  of  a  trimmer  to  take 
advantage  of  your  goodness.  No,  I  must  go — " 

The  gay  warmth  evaporated  from  her  counte 
nance  as  abruptly  as  though  it  had  been  congealed 
in  a  sudden  icy  breath;  she  sat  motionless,  up 
right,  enveloping  him  in  the  bright  resentment 
of  her  gaze. 

"And  I  must  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  .  .  . 
for  this  morning,"  he  stumbled  hastily  on. 
[279] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

The  resentment  burned  into  a  clear  flame  of 
angry  contempt.  "  Tor  this  morning!*  because 
I  kissed  you?" 

He  made  a  vehement  gesture  of  denial.  "Oh, 
no!"  But  she  would  not  allow  him  to  finish. 
"But  I  did,"  she  announced  in  a  hard,  determined 
voice.  "It  isn't  necessary  for  you  to  be  polite; 
I  don't  care  a  damn  for  that  sickening  sort  of 
thing.  I  did,  and  you  are  properly  and  modestly 
retreating.  I  believe  that  you  think  I  am — 'de 
signing,'  isn't  that  the  word?  that  you  might  have 
to  marry  me.  A  kiss,  I  am  to  realize,  is  something 
sacred.  Bah !  you  make  me  ill,  like  almost  every 
thing  else  in  life. 

"If  you  think  for  a  minute  that  it  was  anything 
more  than  the  expression  of  a  passing  impulse 
you  are  beyond  words.  And,  if  it  had  been  more, 
you — you  violet,  I  wouldn't  marry  you;  I 
wouldn't  marry  any  man,  ever!  ever!  ever!  I 
might  have  gone  to  Italy  with  you,  but  probably 
come  home  with  some  one  else — will  that  get  into 
your  pretty  prejudices?" 

"If  you  had  gone  to  Italy  with  me,"  he  de- 
[280] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

clared  sullenly,  "you  would  never  have  come 
home  with  anybody  else." 

"That  sort  of  thing  has  been  dismissed  to  the 
smaller  rural  towns  and  the  cheap  melodramas; 
it's  no  longer  considered  elevated  to  talk  like  that, 
but  only  pitiful.  You  will  start  next  on  'God's 
noblest  creation/  and  purity,  and  the  females  of 
your  family.  Don't  you  know,  haven't  you  been 
told,  that  the  primitive  religious  rubbish  about 
marriage  has  been  laughed  out  of  existence? 
Did  you  dream  that  I  wanted  to  keep  you?  or  that 
I  would  allow  you  to  keep  me  after  the  thing  had 
got  stale?  It  makes  me  cold  all  over  to  be  so 
frightfully  misunderstood.  Oh,  its  unthinkable ! 

"Fi,  to  kiss  you!  wasn't  it  loose  of  me?" 

Her  contemptuous  periods  stung  him  in  a  thou 
sand  minute  places.  "I  told  you,"  he  retorted 
hotly,  "that  I  wanted  to  make  money;  I  don't  want 
it  given  to  me;  it's  for  my  wedding." 

"Of  course,  how  stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
guessed — the  lips  sacred  to  her,"  her  own  trem 
bled  ever  so  slightly,  but  her  scornful  attitude,  her 
direct,  bright  gaze,  were  maintained  "A  knight 
[281] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

errant  adventuring  for  a  village  queen  with  her 
handkerchief  in  his  sleeve  and  tempted  by  the  in 
evitable  Kundry." 

He  settled  himself  to  weathering  this  feminine 
storm;  he  owed  her  all  the  relief  to  be  found  in 
words.  "I  wanted  the  money  to  go  West,"  he 
particularized  further.  "There's  a  position  wait 
ing  for  me — " 

"It's  all  very  chaste,"  she  told  him,  "but  ter 
ribly  commonplace.  I  think  that  I  don't  care  to 
hear  the  details."  She  addressed  herself  to  what 
remained  of  the  luncheon.  "Have  some  more 
sauce,"  she  advised  coolly,  then  rang.  "The  pud 
ding,  Jane,"  she  directed. 

"You  have  been  wonderfully  kind — "  he  be 
gan.  But  she  halted  him  abruptly.  "We'll  drop 
all  that,"  she  pronounced,  and  deliberately  lit  a 
cigarette. 

A  genuine  admiration  for  her  possessed  An 
thony  ;  he  recognized  that  she  was  extraordinarily 
good  to  look  at;  he  had  had  no  idea  that  so  vig 
orous  a  spirit  could  have  burned  behind  a  becom 
ing  dress  by  Paret.  He  realized  with  a  faint  re- 
[282] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

gret,  eminently  masculine,  that  other  men,  men 
of  moment,  would  find  her  irresistibly  attractive. 
Already  it  seemed  incredible  that  she  had  ever 
been  familiar,  intimate,  tender,  with  him. 

"You  will  be  wanting  to  leave,5*  she  said,  ris 
ing;  " — whenever  you  like.  I  have  written  for 
a — a  chauffeur.  I  think  you  should  have,  it's 
twenty-five  dollars,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  twenty-five  cents,"  he  returned. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  force  your  delicate  sensi 
bilities."  She  left  the  room.  He  caught  a  last 
glimpse  of  her  firm,  young  profile;  her  shining, 
coppery  hair;  her  supple,  upright  carriage. 


[283] 


IN  his  room  he  assembled  the  battered  clothing 
in  which  Rufus  Hardinge  had  discovered 
him,  preparatory  to  changing  from  his  present 
more  elaborate  garb,  but  a  sudden  realization  of 
the  triviality  of  that  course,  born  of  the  memory 
of  Annot's  broad  disposition,  halted  him  mid 
way.  Making  a  hasty  bundle  of  his  personal  be 
longings  he  descended  from  the  tower  room. 
Through  an  open  door  he  could  see  the  still,  white 
face  of  the  biologist  looming  from  a  pillow,  and 
the  trim  form  of  a  nurse. 

Thomas  Huxley  lay  somnolently  on  the  porch, 
beside  Annot's  coffee-colored  wicker  chair  and  a 
yellow  paper  book  which  bore  a  title  in  French. 
He  paused  on  the  street,  gazing  back,  and  recalled 
his  first  view  of  the  four-square,  ugly  house  in  its 
coat  of  mustard-colored  paint,  the  grey,  dripping 
cupids  of  the  fountain,  the  unknown  girl  with  yel 
low  silk  stockings.  Already  he  seemed  to  have 
[284] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

crossed  the  gulf  which  divided  it  all  from  the  pres 
ent:  its  significance  faded,  its  solidity  dissolved, 
dropped  behind,  like  a  scene  viewed  from  a  car 
window.  He  turned,  obsessed  by  the  old,  fa 
miliar  impatience  to  hurry  forward,  the  feeling 
that  all  time,  all  energy,  all  plans  and  thoughts, 
were  vain  that  did  not  lead  directly  to — 

A  sudden  and  unaccountable  sensation  of  cold 
swept  over  him,  a  profound  emotion  stirring  in 
response  to  an  obscure,  a  hidden  cause.  Then, 
with  a  rush,  returned  the  feeling  of  Eliza's  near 
ness  :  he  heard  her,  the  little,  indefinable  noises  of 
her  moving ;  he  felt  the  unmistakable  thrill  which 
she  alone  brought.  There  was  a  vivid  sense  of 
her  hand  hovering  above  his  shoulder ;  her  fingers 
must  descend,  rest  warmly.  .  .  .  God!  how  did 
she  get  here.  He  whirled  about  .  .  .  nothing 
against  the  low  stone-wall  that  bounded  a  sleepy 
garden,  nothing  in  the  paved  perspective  of  the 
sunny  street!  He  stood  shaken,  half  terrified, 
miserable.  He  had  never  felt  her  nearness  so 
poignantly;  her  distant  potency  had  never  before 
so  mocked  his  hungering  nerves. 
[285] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

Then,  with  the  cold  chilling  him  like  a  breath 
from  an  icy  vault,  he  heard  her,  beyond  all  ques 
tion,  beyond  all  doubt : 

"Anthony!"  she  called.  "Anthony!"  From 
somewhere  ahead  of  him  her  tones  sounded  thin 
and  clear;  they  seemed  to  reach  him  dropping 
from  a  window,  lingering,  neither  grave  nor  gay, 
but  tenderly  secure,  upon  his  hearing.  He  broke 
into  a  clattering  run  over  the  bricks  of  the  unre 
markable  street,  but  soon  slowed  awkwardly  into 
a  walk,  jeering  at  his  fancy,  his  laboring  heart, 
his  mad  credulity.  And  then,  drifting  across  his 
bewildered  senses,  came  the  illusive,  the  penetrat 
ing,  the  remembered  odor  of  lilacs,  like  a  whisper, 
a  promise,  a  magic  caress. 


[286] 


LI 

IT  was  with  a  puzzled  frown  that  Anthony 
halted  in  the  heart  of  the  city  and  considered 
his  present  resources,  his  future,  possible  plans. 
He  had  three  dollars  and  some  small  silver  left 
from  the  Hardinges,  and  he  regarded  with  skepti 
cism  the  profession  of  chauffeur;  he  would  rather 
adventure  the  heavier  work  of  the  garages.  As 
the  afternoon  was  far  advanced  he  decided  to  de 
fer  his  search  until  the  following  morning;  and 
he  was  absorbed  within  the  gaudy  maw  of  a  mov 
ing  picture  theater. 

Later,  he  entered  an  elaborate  maze  of  mirrors, 
where,  apparently,  a  sheaf  of  Susannas  uncon 
sciously  exhibited  their  diminishing,  anatomical 
charms  to  a  procession  of  elders  advancing  two  by 
two  through  a  perspective  of  sycamores.  At  the 
bar,  his  glass  of  beer  supported  by  two  fried  oy 
sters,  a  sandwich  and  a  saucer  of  salted  almonds, 
[287] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

he  reflected  upon  the  slough  of  sterility  that  had 
fastened  upon  his  feet:  something  must  be  ac 
complished,  decisive,  immediate. 

He  was  proceeding  toward  the  entrance  when 
the  familiar  aspect  of  a  back  brought  him  to  a 
halt.  The  back  moved,  turned,  and  resolved  into 
the  features  of  Thomas  Addington  Meredith. 
The  mutual,  surprised  recognition  was  followed 
by  a  greeting  of  friendly  slaps,  queries,  the  neces 
sity  for  instant,  additional  beers,  and  they  found 
a  place  at  a  small,  polished  table. 

He  was  surprised  to  discover  Tom  Meredith 
the  same  foxy-faced  boy  he  had  left  in  Doctor 
Allhop's  drugstore  ...  it  seemed  to  Anthony 
that  an  incalculable  time  had  passed  since  the 
breaking  of  the  bottles  of  perfume;  he  felt  him 
self  to  be  infinitely  changed,  older,  and  the  other 
his  junior  by  decades  of  experience  and  a  vast 
accumulation  of  worldly  knowledge,  contact  with 
men,  women,  and  events.  Tom's  raiment  did  not 
seem  so  princely  as  it  had  aforetime;  the  ruby 
reputed  to  be  the  gift  of  a  married  woman,  was 
obviously  meretricious,  the  gold  timepiece  merely 
[288] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

commonplace.  But  Anthony  was  unaffectedly 
glad  to  see  him,  to  discuss  homely,  familiar  topics, 
repeat  affectionately  the  names  of  favorite  locali 
ties,  persons. 

"I'm  in  a  bonding  house  here,"  Tom  explained 
upon  Anthony's  query.  "Nothing  in  Ellerton  for 
me.  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Nothing,  until  to-morrow,  when  I  think  I'll 
get  something  in  one  of  the  garages."  He  thrust 
his  hands  negligently  into  his  pockets,  and  came 
in  contact  with  his  father's  forgotten  letter.  He 
opened  it,  gazing  curiously  at  the  words:  "My 
dear  Son,"  when  Tom,  with  an  exclamation,  bent 
and  recovered  a  piece  of  yellow  paper  that  had 
fallen  from  the  envelope.  "Is  this  all  you  think 
of  these?"  he  demanded,  placing  a  fifty  dollar  bill 
upon  the  table. 

Anthony  read  the  letter  with  growing  incredu 
lous  wonder  and  joy.  He  looked  up  with  burning 
cheeks  at  his  companion.  "Remember  old  Mrs. 
Bosby shell?"  he  questioned  in  an  eager  voice. 
"I  used  to  carry  wood,  do  odd  jobs,  for  her:  well, 
she's  dead,  and  left  me — what  do  you  think!  — 
[289] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

father  says  about  forty-seven  thousand  dollars. 
It's  there,  waiting  for  me,  in  Ellerton." 

Suddenly  he  forgot  Thomas  Meredith,  the  glit 
tering  saloon,  the  diminishing  perspective  of 
Susannas — he  saw  Eliza  smiling  at  him  out  of 
the  dusk,  with  her  arms  full  of  white  lilacs.  With 
an  unsteady  pounding  of  his  heart,  a  tightening  of 
the  throat,  he  realized  that,  miraculously,  the  hap 
piness  which  he  had  imagined  so  far  removed  in 
the  uncertain  future  had  been  brought  to  him  now, 
to  the  immediate  present.  He  could  take  a  train 
at  once  and  go  to  her.  The  waiting  was  oven 
The  immeasurable  joy  that  flooded  him  deepened 
to  a  great  chord  of  happiness  that  vibrated  highly 
through  him.  He  folded  the  letter  gravely, 
thoughtfully.  It  was  but  a  few  hours  to  Ellerton 
by  train,  he  knew,  but  he  doubted  the  possibility 
of  a  night  connection  to  that  sequestered  town. 
He  would  go  in  the  morning. 

"Thomas,"  he  declared,  "I  am  about  to  pur 
chase  you  the  best  dinner  that  champagne  can 
shoot  into  your  debased  middle.  Oh,  no,  not 
here,  but  in  a  real  place  where  you  can  catch  your 
[290] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

own  fish  and  shoot  a  pheasant  out  of  a  painted 
tree." 

Thus  pleasantly  apostrophized  that  individual 
led  Anthony  to  the  Delia  Robbia  room  of  an  elab 
orate  hostelry,  where  they  studied  the  carte  de  jour 
amid  pink  tiling  and  porphyry.  There  was  a 
rosy  flush  of  shaded  lights  over  snowy  linen  in  the 
long,  high  chamber,  the  subdued  passage  of  wait 
ers  like  silhouettes,  low  laughter,  and  a  throbbing 
strain  of  violins  falling  from  a  balcony  above 
their  heads.  They  pondered  nonchalantly  the 
strange  names,  elaborate  sauces;  but  were  finally 
launched  upon  suave  cocktails  and  clams.  An 
thony  settled  back  into  a  glow  of  well-being,  of 
the  tranquillity  that  precedes  an  expected,  secure 
joy.  He  saluted  the  champagne  bucket  by  the  ta 
ble;  when,  suddenly,  the  necessity  to  speak  of 
Eliza  overcame  him,  he  wished  to  hear  her  name 
pronounced  by  other  lips  .  .  .  perhaps  he  would 
tell  Tom  all;  he  was  the  best  of  fellows.  .  .  . 

"Are  the  Dreens  home?"  he  asked  negligently. 
"Have  you  seen  Eliza  Dreen  about — you  know 
with  that  soft,  shiny  hair?" 
[291] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

Thomas  Meredith  directed  at  him  a  glance  of 
careless  surprise.  "Why,"  he  answered,  "I 
thought  you  knew ;  it  seemed  to  me  she  died  before 
you  left.  Anyhow,  it  was  about  the  same  time,  it 
must  have  been  the  next  week.  Pneumonia. 
This  soup's  great,  Anthony." 


[292] 


LII 

THE  joy  that  had  sung  through  Anthony 
shrunk  into  an  intolerable  pain  like  an 
icicle  thrust  into  his  heart;  he  swallowed  con 
vulsively  a  spoonful  of  soup,  tasteless,  scalding 
hot,  and  put  the  spoon  down  with  a  clatter.  He 
half  rose  from  the  chair,  with  his  arms  extended, 
as  if  by  that  means  he  could  ward  off  the  terrible 
misfortune  that  had  befallen  him.  Thomas 
Meredith,  unaware  of  Anthony's  drawn  face,  his 
staring  gaze,  continued  to  eat  with  gusto  the  un 
speakable  liquid,  and  the  waiter  uncorked  the 
champagne  with  a  soft  explosion.  The  wine 
flowed  bubbling  into  their  glasses,  and  Tom  held 
his  aloft.  "To  your  good  luck,"  he  proclaimed, 
but  set  it  down  untouched  at  Anthony's  pallor. 

"What's  the  matter— sick?  It's  the  beer  and 
cocktail,  it  always  does  it." 

"It's  not  that,"  Anthony  said  very  distinctly. 
[293] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

His  voice  sounded  to  him  like  that  of  a  third  per 
son.  He  was  laboring  to  adjust  the  tumult  within 
him  to  the  fact  of  Eliza's  death ;  he  repeated  half 
aloud  the  term  "dead"  and  its  whispered  sylla 
ble  seemed  to  fill  the  entire  world,  the  sky,  to  echo 
ceaselessly  in  space.  From  the  stringed  instru 
ments  above  came  the  refrain  of  a  popular  song; 
and,  subconsciously,  mechanically,  he  repeated 
the  words  aloud;  when  he  heard  his  own  voice 
he  stopped  as  though  a  palm  had  been  clapped 
upon  his  mouth. 

"What  is  it?"  Tom  persisted;  "don't  discom 
pose  this  historical  banquet."  The  waiter  re 
placed  the  soup  with  fish,  over  which  he  spread 
a  thick,  yellow  sauce.  "Go  on,"  Anthony  artic 
ulated,  "go  on — "  he  emptied  his  champagne  glass 
at  a  gulp,  and  then  a  second.  "Certainly  a  fresh 
quart,"  his  companion  directed  the  waiter. 

Eliza  was  dead!  pneumonia.  That,  he  told 
himself,  was  why  she  had  not  answered  his  let 
ter,  why,  on  the  steps  at  Hydrangea  House,  Mrs. 
Dreen — hell  1  how  could  he  think  of  such  things  ? 
Eliza  .  .  .  dead,  cold  who  warm  had  kissed  him; 
[294] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

Eliza,  for  whom  all  had  been  dreamed,  planned, 
undertaken,  dead ;  Eliza  gone  from  him,  gone  out 
of  the  sun  into  the  damned  and  horrible  dirt. 
Tom,  explaining  him  satisfactorily,  devoted  him 
self  to  the  succession  of  dishes  that  flowed  through 
the  waiter's  skillful  hands,  dishes  that  Anthony 
dimly  recognized  having  ordered — surely  years 
before.  "You're  drunk,"  Thomas  declared. 

He  drank  inordinately:  gradually  a  haze  en 
veloped  him,  separating  him  from  the  world,  from 
his  companion,  a  shadowy  shape  performing 
strange  antics  at  a  distance.  Sounds,  voices, 
penetrated  to  his  isolation,  rent  thinly  the  veil 
that  held  at  its  center  the  sharp  pain  dulled,  ex 
panded,  into  a  leaden,  sickening  ache.  He  placed 
the  yellow  bank  note  on  a  silver  platter  that 
swayed  before  him,  and  in  return  received  a  crisp 
pile,  which,  with  numb  fingers,  he  crowded  into 
a  pocket.  He  would  have  fallen  as  he  rose  from 
his  chair  if  Tom  had  not  caught  him,  leading  him 
stumbling  but  safely  to  the  street. 

"Don't  start  an  ugly  drunk,"  Thomas  Meredith 
begged.  Without  a  word,  Anthony  turned  and, 
[295] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

with  stiff  legs,  strode  into  the  night.  Eliza  was 
dead;  he  had  had  something  to  give  her,  a  sur 
prise,  but  it  was  too  late.  A  great  piece  of  good 
fortune  had  overtaken  him,  he  wanted  to  tell 
Eliza,  but  ...  he  collided  with  a  pedestrian,  and 
continued  at  a  tangent  like  a  mechanical  toy 
turned  from  its  course.  His  companion  swung 
him  from  under  the  wheels  of  a  truck.  "Wait," 
he  panted,  "I'm  no  Marathon  runner,  it's  hotter'n 
Egypt." 

The  perspiration  dripped  from  Anthony's 
countenance,  wet  the  clenched  palms  of  his  hands. 
He  walked  on  and  on,  through  streets  brilliantly 
lighted  and  streets  dark;  streets  crowded  with  men 
in  evening  clothes,  loafing  with  cigarettes  by 
illuminated  playbills,  streets  empty,  silent  save 
for  the  echo  of  his  hurried,  shambling  footsteps. 
Eliza  was  lost,  out  there  somewhere  in  the  night; 
he  must  find  her,  bring  her  back:  but  he  couldn't 
find  her,  nor  bring  her  back — she  was  dead.  He 
stopped  to  reconsider  dully  that  idea.  A  row  of 
surprisingly  white  marble  steps,  of  closed  doors, 
blank  windows,  confronted  him.  "This  is  where 
[296] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

I  retire,"  Thomas  Meredith  declared.  Anthony 
wondered  what  the  fellow  was  buzzing  about  ?  why 
should  he  wait  for  him,  Anthony  Ball,  at  "Mo 
Canns"? 

He  considered  with  a  troubled  brow  a  world 
empty  of  Eliza;  it  wasn't  possible,  no  such  fool 
ish  world  could  exist  for  a  moment.  Who  had 
dared  to  rob  him?  In  a  methodical  voice  he 
cursed  all  the  holy,  all  the  august,  all  the  reverent 
names  he  could  call  to  mind.  Then  again  he 
hurried  on,  leaving  standing  a  ridiculous  figure 
who  shouted  an  incomprehensible  sentence. 

He  passed  through  an  unsubstantial  city  of 
shadows,  of  sudden,  clangoring  sounds,  of  the 
blur  of  lights  swaying  in  strings  above  his  head, 
of  unsteady  luminous  bubbles  floating  before  him 
through  ravines  of  gloom;  bells  rang  loud  and 
threatening,  throats  of  brass  bellowed.  His  head 
began  to  throb  with  a  sudden  pain,  and  the  pain 
printed  clearly  on  the  bright  suffering  of  his  mind 
a  stooping,  dusty  figure;  leaden  eyes,  a  grey  face, 
peered  into  his  own ;  slack  lips  mumbled  the  story 
of  a  boy  dead  long  ago — Eliza,  Eliza  was  dead — 
[297] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

and  of  a  red  necktie,  a  Sunday  suit;  a  fearful  fig 
ure,  a  fearful  story,  from  the  low  mutter  of  which 
he  precipitantly  fled.  Other  faces  crowded  his 
brain — Ellie  with  her  cool,  understanding  look, 
his  mother,  his  father  frowning  at  him  in  assumed 
severity;  he  saw  Mrs.  Dreen,  palely  sweet  in  a 
starlit  gloom.  Then  panic  swept  over  him  as  he 
realized  that  he  was  unable,  in  a  sudden  freak  of 
memory,  to  summon  into  that  intimate  gallery  the 
countenance  of  Eliza.  It  was  as  though  in  dis 
appearing  from  the  corporeal  world  she  had  also 
vanished  from  the  realm  of  his  thoughts,  of  his 
longing.  He  paused,  driving  his  nails  into  his 
palms,  knotting  his  brow,  in  an  agony  of  effort 
to  visualize  her.  In  vain.  "I  can't  remember 
her,"  he  told  an  indistinct  human  form  before 
him.  "I  can't  remember  her." 

A  voice  answered  him,  thin  and  surprisingly 
bitter.  "When  you  are  sober  you  will  stop  try 
ing." 

And  then  he  saw  her  once  more,  so  vivid,  so 
near,  that  he  gave  a  sobbing  exclamation  of  re 
lief.  "Don't,"  he  whispered,  "not  .  .  .  lose 
[298] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

again — "  He  forgot  for  the  moment  that  she  was 
dead,  and  put  out  a  hand  to  touch  her.  Thin  air. 
Then  he  recalled.  He  commenced  his  direct,  aim 
less  course,  but  a  staggering  weariness  overcame 
him,  the  toylike  progress  grew  slower,  there  were 
interruptions,  convulsive  starts. 


[299] 


LIII 

AT  the  same  time  the  haze  lightened  about 
him:  he  saw  clearly  his  surroundings,  the 
black,  glittering  windows  of  stores,  the  gleaming 
rails  which  bound  the  stone  street.  His  hat  was 
gone  and  he  had  long  before  lost  the  bundle  that 
contained  his  linen.  But  the  loss  was  of  small 
moment  now — he  had  money,  a  pocketful  of  it, 
and  forty-seven  thousand  dollars  waiting  in  Eller- 
ton :  his  father  was  a  scrupulous,  truthful  and  ex 
act  man. 

Eliza  and  he  would  have  been  immediately  mar 
ried,  gone  to  a  little  green  village,  under  a  red 
mountain;  Eliza  would  have  worn  the  most  beau 
tiful  dresses  made  by  a  parrot;  but  that,  he  rec 
ognized  shrewdly,  was  an  idiotic  fancy — birds 
didn't  make  dresses.  And  now  she  was  dead. 

He  entered  a  place  of  multitudinous  mirrors 
reflecting  a  woman's  flickering  limbs,  sly  and 
bearded  masculine  faces,  that  somehow  were 
vaguely  familiar. 

[300] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"Champagne! "  he  cried,  against  the  bar. 

"Your  champagne'll  come  across  in  a 
schooner." 

But,  impatiently,  he  shoved  a  handful  of  money 
into  the  zinc  gutter.  "Champagne!"  he  reit 
erated  thickly.  The  barkeeper  deduced  four  dol 
lars  and  returned  the  balance.  "Sink  it,"  he  ad 
vised,  "or  you'll  get  it  lifted  on  you." 

With  the  wine,  the  mist  deepened  once  more 
about  him;  the  ache — was  it  in  his  head  or  his 
heart? — grew  duller.  He  had  poured  out  a  third 
glass  when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  whirling  suspiciously,  he  saw  a  uniform  cap, 
a  man's  gaunt  face  and  burning  eyes. 

"Brother,"  the  latter  said,  "brother,  shall  we 
leave  this  reeking  sink,  and  go  out  together  into 
God's  night?" 

Blinking,  Anthony  recognized  the  livery,  the 
accents,  of  the  Salvation  Army.  A  sullen  anger 
burned  within  him — this  man  was  a  sort  of  offi 
cial  connection  of  God's,  who  had  killed  Eliza. 
He  smoothed  out  his  face  cunningly,  moved  obe 
diently  toward  the  other,  and  struck  him  viciously 
[301] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

across  the  face.  Pandemonium  rose  instantly 
about  him,  an  incredible  number  of  men  appeared 
shouting,  gesticulating,  and  formed  in  a  ring  of 
blurred,  grinning  faces.  The  jaw  of  the  Salva 
tion  Army  man  was  bright  with  blood,  dark  drops 
fell  on  his  threadbare  coat.  His  hand  closed 
again  on  Anthony's  shoulder. 

"Strive,  brother,"  he  cried.  "The  Mansion 
door  is  open." 

Anthony  regarded  him  with  insolent  disdain. 
"Ought  to  be  exposed,"  he  articulated,  "whole 
thing  .  .  .  humbug.  Isn't  any  such — such. 
.  .  .  Eliza's  dead,  ain't  she?" 

A  ripple  of  merriment  ran  about  the  circle  of 
loose,  stained  lips;  the  curious,  ribald  eyes  glit 
tered  with  cold  mirth;  the  circle  flattened  with  the 
pressure  of  those  without,  impatient  for  a  better 
view.  Anthony  surveyed  them  with  impotent 
fury,  loathing,  and  they  met  his  passionate  anger 
with  faces  as  stony,  as  inhuman,  as  cruel,  carved 
masks.  He  heard  her  name,  the  name  of  the  gra 
cious  and  beautiful  vision  of  his  adoration,  re 
peated  in  hoarse,  in  maculate,  in  gibing  tones. 
[302] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"She's  dead,"  he  repeated  sharply,  as  though 
that  fact  should  impose  silence  on  them;  "you 
filthy  curs! "  But  their  approbation  of  the  spec 
tacle  became  only  the  more  marked. 

The  Salvation  Army  man  fastened  his  hectic 
gaze  upon  Anthony;  he  was,  it  was  evident,  un 
aware  of  the  blood  drying  upon  his  face,  of  the 
throng  about  them.  "There  is  no  death,"  he 
proclaimed.  "There  is  no  death ! " 

"But  she  is  dead,"  Anthony  insisted;  "pneu 
monia  .  .  .  with  green  eyes  and  foggy  hands." 

They  began  an  insane  argument:  Eliza  was 
gone,  Anthony  reiterated,  the  other  could  not  deny 
that  she  was  lost  to  life,  to  the  sun.  He  recalled 
statements  of  Rufus  Hardinge's,  crisp  icono- 
clasms  of  Annot's,  and  fitted  them  into  the  patch 
work  of  his  labored  speech.  Texts  were  flung 
aloft  like  flags  by  the  other;  ringing  sentences  in 
the  incomparable  English  of  King  James  echoed 
about  the  walls,  the  bottles  of  the  saloon  and  beat 
upon  the  throng,  the  blank  hearts,  the  beery 
brains,  of  the  spectators.  "Blessed  are  the  pure 
in  heart,"  he  orated,  "for  they  ...  for  they  .  .  ." 
[303] 


LIV 

THAT  word — purity,  rang  like  a  gong  in 
Anthony's  thoughts:  Eliza  had  empha 
sized  it,  questioning  him.  The  term  became  in 
explicably  merged  with  Eliza  into  one  shining 
whole — Eliza,  purity ;  purity,  Eliza.  A  swift  im 
pression  of  massed,  white  flowers  swept  before 
him,  leaving  a  delicate  and  trailing  fragrance. 
He  had  a  vision  of  purity  as  something  concrete, 
something  which,  like  a  priceless  and  fragile  vase, 
he  guarded  in  his  hands.  It  had  been  a  charge 
from  her,  a  trust  that  he  must  keep  unspotted,  in 
violable,  that  she  would  require — but  she  was 
gone,  she  was  dead. 

"...  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,"  the 
other  cried. 

She  had  left  him;  he  stood  alone,  guarding  a 
meaningless  thing,  useless  as  the  money  in  his 
pocket. 

[304] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

A  man  with  bare,  corded  arms  and  an  apron, 
broke  roughly  through  the  circle;  and  with  a  hand 
on  Anthony's  back,  a  hand  on  the  back  of  his  op 
ponent,  urged  them  toward  the  door.  "You'll 
have  to  take  this  outside,"  he  pronounced,  "you're 
blocking  the  bar." 

An  arm  linked  within  Anthony's,  and  swung 
him  aside.  "Unavoidably  detained  by  merest 
'quaintance,"  Thomas  Meredith  explained  with 
ponderous  exactitude.  Unobserved,  they  found  a 
place  at  the  table  they  had  occupied  earlier  in  the 
evening.  The  latter  ordered  a  fresh  bottle,  but 
was  persuaded  by  Anthony  to  surrender  the  check 
which  accompanied  it. 

A  sudden  hatred  for  the  money  that  had  come 
too  late  possessed  him:  if  he  had  had  the  whole 
forty-seven  thousand  dollars  there  he  would  have 
torn  it  up,  trampled  upon  it,  flung  it  to  the  noisome 
corners  of  the  saloon.  It  seemed  to  have  become 
his  for  the  express  purpose  of  mocking  at  his 
sorrow,  his  loss.  His  hatred  spread  to  include 
that  purity,  that  virtue,  which  he  had  conceived 
of  as  something  material,  an  actual  possession. 
[305] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

.  .  .  That,  at  any  rate,  he  might  trample  under 
foot,  destroy,  when  and  as  it  pleased  him.  Eliza 
was  gone  and  all  that  was  left  was  valueless.  It 
had  been,  all  unconsciously,  dedicated  to  her ;  and 
now  he  desired  to  cast  it  into  the  mold  that  held 
her. 

He  fingered  with  a  new  care  the  sum  in  his 
pocket,  an  admirably  comprehensive  plan  had 
occurred  to  him — he  would  bury  them  both,  the 
money  and  purity,  beneath  the  same  indignity. 
Tom  Meredith,  he  was  certain,  could  direct  his 
purpose  to  its  fulfillment.  Nor  was  he  mistaken. 
The  conversation  almost  immediately  swung  to 
the  subject  of  girls,  girls  gracious,  prodigal  of 
their  charms.  They  would  sally  forth  presently 
and  "see  the  town."  Tom  loudly  asseverated  his 
knowledge  of  all  the  inmates  of  all  the  complacent 
quarters  under  the  gas  light.  Before  a  cab  was 
summoned  Anthony  stumbled  mysteriously  to  the 
bar,  returning  with  a  square,  paper-wrapped  par 
cel. 

"Port  wine,"  he  ejaculated,  "must  have  it  ... 
for  a  good  time." 

[306] 


LV 

A  SEEMINGLY  interminable  ride  followed, 
they  rattled  over  rough  stones,  rolled  with 
a  clacking  tire  over  asphalt.  A  smell  unnamable, 
fulsome,  corrupt,  hung  in  Anthony's  nostrils;  the 
driver  objurgated  his  horse  in  a  desperate  whis 
per;  Tom's  head  fell  from  side  to  side  on  his 
breast.  The  mists  surged  about  Anthony,  veiling, 
obscuring  all  but  the  sullen  purpose  compressing 
his  heart,  throbbing  in  his  brain. 

There  was  a  halt,  a  rocking  pavement  and 
unctuous  tones.  Then  a  hall,  a  room,  and  the 
tinny  racket  of  a  piano,  feminine  voices  that,  at 
the  same  time,  were  hoarsely  sexless,  empty,  like 
harsh  echoes  flung  from  a  rocky  void.  A  form  in 
red  silk  took  possession  of  Anthony's  hand,  sat  by 
his  side;  a  hot  breath,  a  whisper,  flattened  against 
his  ear.  At  times  he  could  distinguish  Tom's  ac 
cents;  he  seemed  to  be  arguing  masterfully,  but 
[307] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

a  shrill,  voluble  stream  kept  pace  with  him,  si 
lenced  him  in  the  end. 

Anthony  strove  against  great,  inimical  forces 
to  maintain  his  sanity  of  action,  ensure  his  pur 
pose:  he  sat  with  a  grim,  haggard  face  as  rigid 
as  wood,  as  tense  as  metal.  The  cloudy  darkness 
swept  over  him,  impenetrable,  appalling ;  through 
it  he  seemed  to  drop  for  miles,  for  years,  for  cen 
turies;  it  lightened,  and  he  found  himself  clutch 
ing  the  sides  of  his  chair,  shuddering  over  the 
space  which,  he  had  felt,  gaped  beneath  him. 

In  moments  of  respite  he  saw,  gliding  through 
the  heated  glare,  gaily-clad  forms;  they  danced; 
yet  for  all  the  dancing,  for  all  the  colors,  they 
were  more  sinister  than  merry,  they  were  incom 
parably  more  grievous  than  gay.  A  tray  of  beer 
glasses  was  held  before  him,  but  he  waved  it 
aside.  "Champagne,"  he  muttered.  The  husky 
voices  commended  him;  a  bare  arm  crept  around 
his  neck,  soft,  stifling ;  the  red  silk  form  was  like 
a  blot  of  blood  on  the  gloom;  it  spread  over  his 
arm  like  a  tide  of  blood  welling  from  his  torn 
heart. 

[308] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

He  thought  at  intervals,  when  the  piano  was 
silent,  that  he  could  distinguish  the  sound  of  low, 
continuous  sobbing;  and  the  futility  of  grief  af 
forded  a  contemptuous  amusement.  "It's  fierce," 
a  shrill  voice  pronounced.  "They  ought  to  have 
took  her  somewhere  else;  this  is  a  decent  place." 

A  second  hotly  silenced  this  declaration.  In 
the  jumble  of  talk  which  followed  he  heard  the 
title  "captain"  pronounced  authoritatively,  con 
clusively  imposing  an  abrupt  lull.  Men  entered. 
With  an  effort  which  taxed  his  every  resource  of 
concentration  he  saw  that  there  were  two;  he  dis 
tinguished  two  tones — one  deliberate,  coldly  arro 
gant,  the  other  explosive,  iterating  noisy  asser 
tions.  Peering  through  the  film  before  his  eyes, 
Anthony  saw  that  the  first,  insignificant  in  stature, 
exactly  and  fashionably  dressed,  had  a  counte 
nance  flat  and  dark,  like  a  Chinaman's;  the  other 
was  a  fleshy  young  man  in  an  electric  blue  suit,  his 
neck  swelling  in  a  crimson  fold  above  his  collar, 
who  gesticulated  with  a  fat,  white  hand. 

Anthony  felt  the  attention  of  the  room  centered 
upon  himself,  he  heard  disconnected  periods; 
[309] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

".  .  .  to  the  eyes.  Good  fellow  .  .  .  threw 
friend  out — one  of  them  lawyer  jags,  too  dam' 
smart."  A  voice  flowed,  thick  and  gummy  like 
molasses,  from  the  redness  at  his  side,  "He's  my 
fellow;  ain't  you,  Raymond?" 

A  wave  of  deathly  sickness  swept  up  from  the 
shuddering  void  and  enveloped  him.  He  sum 
moned  his  dissipated  faculties,  formed  his  cold 
lips  in  readiness  to  pronounce  fateful  words,  when 
he  was  diverted  by  the  sharp  impact  of  a  shutting 
door,  he  heard  with  preternatural  clearness  a  bolt 
slip  in  its  channel.  The  young  man  in  the  blue 
suit  had  disappeared.  Again  the  sobbing,  low 
and  distinct,  rose  and  fell  upon  his  hearing. 

There  was  a  general  stir  in  the  room ;  the  form 
beside  him  rose;  and  he  was  lunging  to  his  feet 
when,  in  the  act  of  moving,  he  became  immovable ; 
he  stood  bent,  with  his  hands  extended,  listening ; 
he  turned  his  head  slowly,  he  turned  his  dull, 
straining  gaze  from  side  to  side.  Then  he 
straightened  up  as  though  he  had  been  opened  by 
a  spring. 

[310] 


THE   LAY   ANTHONY 

"Who— who  called  ?"  he  demanded.  "Who 
called  me — Anthony?" 

In  the  short,  startled  silence  which  followed  the 
room  grew  suddenly  clear  before  him,  the  mist 
dissolved  before  a  garish  flood  of  gaslight  that 
fell  upon  a  grotesque  circle  of  women  in  shape 
less,  bright  apparel;  he  saw  haggard,  youthful 
countenances  on  which  streaks  of  paint  burned 
like  flames;  he  saw  eyes  shining  and  dead  like 
glass  marbles;  mouths  drawn  and  twisted  as 
though  by  torture.  He  saw  the  fragile,  fashion 
ably  dressed  youth  with  the  flat  face.  No  one  of 
them  could  have  called  him  in  the  clear  tone  that 
had  swept  like  a  silver  stream  through  the  miasma 
of  his  consciousness. 

Again  he  heard  it.  "Anthony ! "  Its  echo  ran 
from  his  brain  in  thrills  of  wonder,  of  response, 
to  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  "Anthony!"  Oh, 
God !  he  knew  now,  beyond  all  question,  all  doubt, 
that  it  was  the  voice  of  Eliza.  But  Eliza  was 
dead.  It  was  an  inexplicable,  a  cunning  and 
merciless  jest,  at  the  expense  of  his  love,  his  long- 
[311] 


THE   LAY    ANTHONY 

ing.  .  .  .  "Anthony!"  it  came  from  above,  from 
within. 

A  double,  sliding  door  filled  the  middle  of  the 
wall,  and,  starting  forward,  he  fumbled  with  its 
small,  brass  handles.  A  sudden,  subdued  con> 
motion  of  curses,  commands,  arose  behind  him; 
hands  dragged  at  his  shoulders;  an  arm  as  thin 
and  hard  as  steel  wire  closed  about  his  throat. 
He  broke  its  strangling  hold,  brushed  the  others 
aside.  The  door  was  bolted.  Yes,  it  came  from 
beyond;  and  from  within  came  the  sobbing  that 
had  hovered  continuously  at  the  back  of  his  per 
ception. 

He  shook  the  door  viciously;  then,  disregard 
ing  the  hands  tearing  at  him  from  the  rear,  burst 
it  open  with  his  shoulder.  He  staggered  in,  look 
ing  wildly  about.  ...  It  had,  after  all,  been  only 
a  freak  of  his  disordered  mind,  an  hallucination 
of  his  pain.  The  room  was  empty  but  for  the 
young  man  in  electric  blue,  now  with  his  coat  over 
the  back  of  a  chair,  and  a  girl  with  a  torn  waist, 
where  her  thin,  white  shoulder  showed  dark,  reg- 
[312] 


THE    LAY   ANTHONY 

ular  prints,  and  a  tangle  of  hair  across  her  im 
mature  face. 

The  man  in  shirt  sleeves  rose  from  the  couch, 
on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  with  a  stream  of 
sudden,  surprised  oaths.  The  girl  who  stood 
gazing  with  distended  eyes  at  Anthony  turned 
and  flashed  through  the  broken  door.  "Stop 
her!"  was  urgently  cried;  "the  hall  door — "  An 
thony  heard  a  chair  fall  in  the  room  beyond,  shrill 
cries  that  sank,  muffled  in  a  further  space. 

The  two  men  faced  him  in  the  silent  room: 
the  larger,  with  an  empurpled  visage,  bloodshot 
eyes,  shook  with  enraged  concern;  the  other  was 
as  motionless  as  a  piece  of  furniture,  in  his 
wooden  countenance  his  gaze  glittered  like  a 
snake's,  glittered  as  icily  as  the  diamond  that 
sparkled  in  his  crimson  tie  folded  exactly  beneath 
an  immaculate  collar.  Only,  at  intervals,  his 
fingers  twitched  like  jointed  and  animated  straws. 

An  excited  voice  cried  from  the  distance :  "She's 
gone!     Alice's  face  is  tore  open  .  .  .  out  the  door 
like  a  devil,  and  up  the  street  in  her  petticoat." 
[313] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

The  man  with  the  flushed  face  wilted.  "This 
is  as  bad  as  hell,"  he  whimpered.  "It  will  come 
out,  sure.  You — "  he  particularized  Anthony 
with  a  corroding  epithet.  "The  captain  is  in  it 
deep  .  .  .  this  will  do  for  him,  we'll  all  go  up — " 

"Why?"  the  other  demanded.  He  indicated 
Anthony  with  his  left  hand,  while  the  other  stole 
into  his  pocket.  "He  brought  her  here  .  .  .  you 
heard  the  girl  and  broke  into  the  room ;  there  was 
a  fight — a  fight."  He  drew  nearer  to  Anthony  by 
a  step. 


[314] 


LVI 

ANTHONY  gazed  above  their  heads. 
There,  again,  clear  and  sweet,  his  name 
shaped  like  a  bell-note.  The  familiar  scent  of  a 
springtide  of  lilacs  swept  about  him;  the  placid 
murmur  of  water  slipping  between  sodded  banks, 
tumbling  over  a  fall;  the  querulous  hunting  cry  of 
owls  hovered  in  his  hearing,  singing  in  the  under 
tone  of  that  pronouncement  of  his  name  out  of  the 
magic  region  of  his  joy. 

"No  good,"  a  voice  buzzed,  indistinct,  imma 
terial.     "Who'll  shut  this—?  who'll  get  the  girl ?" 
"The  girl  can't  reach  us  alone.  ..." 
An  intolerable  scarlet  hurt  stabbed  at  Anthony 
out  of  a  pungent,  whitish  cloud.     There  was  a 
fretful  report.     A  flat,  dark  face  without  expres 
sion,  without  the  blink  of  an  eyelid,  a  twitch  of  the 
mouth,  loomed  before  him  and  then  shot  up  into 
darkness.     The  hurt  multiplied  a  thousand  fold, 
[315] 


THE    LAY    ANTHONY 

it  poured  through  him  like  molten  metal,  lay  in  a 
flashing  pool  upon  his  heart,  filled  his  brain.  He 
opened  his  lips  for  a  protest,  put  out  his  hands  ap- 
pealingly.  But  he  uttered  no  sound,  his  arms 
sank,  grew  stiff  ...  the  light  faded  from  his 
eyes. 

.  .  .  imponderable  silence.    Frigid  night.  .  .  . 

Far  off  he  heard  her  calling  him,  imperative, 
confident,  glad.  Her  crystal  tones  descended  into 
the  abyss  whose  black  and  eternal  walls  towered 
above  him.  He  must  rise  and  bear  to  her  that 
gift  like  a  precious  and  fragile  vase  which  he  held 
unbroken  in  his  hands.  An  ineffable  fragrance 
deepened  about  him  from  the  massed  blooms  rosy 
in  the  glow  where  she  waited,  drawing  him  up  to 
her  out  of  the  chaotic  wash  beyond  the  worlds 
where  the  vapors  of  corrupted  matter  sank  and 
sank  in  slow  coils,  falling  endlessly,  forever. 


THE   END 


[316] 


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NOV    5   1*32 


22  ,932 


JUN     1   1933 

JUl  14  1933 

FEB    9    1934 
APR  24  1934 

Jtl  271934 


DEC    6    1935 
MAR  17  1937 


JAN  10  ! 


19Mr»5!HK 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


